"TRUE" 

AND OTHER STORIES 



By JULIA M. BURNETT 



-#r^ 



REDONDO BEACH 

CALIFORNIA 

1908 






/ t"! 3 ) F I 



'Press of 

The lififlex 'Puhlishing Company 

liedondo iBeacfi, California 



Con tents 



PAGE. 



Introduction vii 

''Tkue" 1 

Bertie's Snowball 77 

Charlie's Messenger 93 

JocH 105 

The New Hippodrome 135 

Crooked Charlie 149 

A Christmas Vision 157 



Introduction 



Introduction 




I^^vN making selections from my 
Vk mother's prose writings for a 
^j companion volume to her book 
^\| of verse, I have been guided by 
the same considerations which governed me in 
the collection of the poems — the desire to place 
in permanent form those stories which she 
would have wished to preserve, and which will 
be prized by those who loved her, not only for 
their intrinsic value but also because they com- 
memorate incidents in her life. 

These stories were all written after my 
father's death, though one of them relates to 
my mother's happy girlhood life at Brookside, 



Introduction 



where the '' Lieutenant Sydney" of the story 
was Lieutenant Charles W. Chipp, her cousin 
and adopted brother — a gallant and brilliant 
officer, who was lost in the Arctic with the ill- 
fated steamer Jeannette. 

"True" was written in Newark, New Jersey, 
in 1875, and published the same year in the 
Christian Union. It. attracted considerable at- 
tention and was several times reprinted. It 
seems to me a masterpiece of simple pathos, 
and is all the more interesting from the fact that 
it is substantially a true record — with the excep- 
tion of a few characters and incidents — of our 
life at Bath, Long Island, shortly after my 
mother's widowhood. I can just remember the 
tall, kindly man described in the story, who 
used to carry my brother and myself upon his 
shoulder, and whose memory we were always 
taught to reverence as one whose unselfish 



Introduction 



devotion had meant much to our little family 
in some of its darkest hours. 

The other stories were written for St. Nich- 
olas, and similar periodicals. They are per- 
haps more interesting to me than to others, and 
yet I think they show a depth of sentiment, a 
lightness of touch and a tender love for child- 
hood which will appeal to all. 

In sending forth this little volume of stories 
to those same loving hands which welcomed 
so warmly my mother's book of poems, I wish 
to express my gratitude for the many kind 
and tender messages I have received regarding 
the former volume, and to which I have 
been unable, in many instances, to reply as fully 
and as feelingly as I would have liked. 

It is a great satisfaction to know that her 
pure and unselfish life, which meant so 
much to me, has also left its deep impress 



Introduction 



upon so many others, and that she still lives, 
not only in that other land where we shall some 
day be reunited, but also in the minds and 
hearts of all who knew her here. 

C. H. B. 



Redondo Beach, 

December, 1908. 



I rue 




I r u e 



Landlord and Tenant 

T was a clear, bright morning in 
early spring, and the sun was 
looking down upon as fair a spot 
as any he shines upon in all his 
journey — a lovely little village on the Hudson, 
where snow-white, vine-embroidered cottages 
hid beneath spreading trees, or peeped out tim- 
idly at the stately river moving on with calm 
and silent dignity to the sea. 

On the principal street, before one of the 
most attractive of these little rural homes, a 
woman stood, of tall and slender figure, and 
with a pale, sad countenance in striking con- 
trast yet full harmony with the sable garments 

of widowhood she wore. A smile parted her 

1 



"1 rue 

lips as she looked again at the object that had 
first stayed her passing steps, — a shingle nailed 
upon the honeysuckled porch, on which was 
inscribed in rude characters, ''To let, Inquire 
"Within." 

The smile shifted quickly from lips to eyes, 
as, glancing round, they took in with eager 
gaze the pretty, home-like scene — the neat, 
well-painted little house, with its large- 
paned windows, Venetian blinds and vine- 
covered porch; the box-bordered path stretch- 
ing down to the gate ; the smooth, green lawn, 
larger in extent than any of its neighbors, and 
dotted here and there with flowering shrubs 
just bursting into leaf ; the towering elm upon 
one side, and the graceful branches of a willow 
sweeping the ground upon the other; while 
from the circular plot for flowers upon either 
side, blossoms of tulip, hyacinth and lily raised 

their dainty heads from the brown mould, 
2 



Landlord and Tenant 

repeating their oft-told lesson to humanity, and 
whispering of that sweet springtide when we 
shall rise from the dust and dark of this mate- 
rial body into a ^ ' purer ether, a diviner air. ' ' 

A long look and a heavy sigh, and the gloved 
hand that had rested on the gate was with- 
drawn, and the owner was about to pass on, 
but paused once more. 

''It's no use," she murmured, "but some- 
thing impels me to enter," and she walked 
hesitatingly up the garden path, preceded by a 
happy, dancing child, who chattered as gaily 
as the birds above her head — taking even less 
thought than they for the morrow, or the pro- 
viding of the home nest which this poor human 
mother was seeking for herself and birdling. 

Her gentle knock met with no response, but 
through the half open door the sound of a ham- 
mer and saw was heard within, with a whistled 

accompaniment evidently by an expert. 

3 



"True" 



''Oh, Mamma," exclaimed the child, ''are we 
going to live in this pretty place, and may I 
have this lovely little porch for my doll-house? 
Dolly and I can play here all day long. There 
will be a truly door, and these are my windows, ^ 
see!" — and a little hand parted the leafy cur- 
tains. "Oh, Mamma, this must be the very 
place you have been looking for so long ! May- 
be God has sent us here. I do hope it is going 
to be our home!" 

The mother's eyes filled with tears. 

' ' I fear not, ' ' she murmured, and, her second 
knock having been no more successful than the 
first, she turned to go, but the child had van- 
ished. In a trice she reappeared, leading or 
being led by a tall and not ill-looking man, — 
rude and angular as the letters on the sign, 
but on his face a look of thoughtful kindness 
that softened the rugged features and won the 

visitor from the first. He was evidently the 
4 



Landlord and Tenant 

noisy occupant they had heard, for he carried 
a hammer in his hand; and evidently the 
whistler too, for though his mouth was now 
spread in a broad, good-natured smile, it did 
not lose the creased expression that some forty- 
five years of lingual practice had left upon the 
strongly marked New England face. 

''See, Mamma," the child exclaimed, ''this 
is the papa of this home, and he says that we 
may live here — ^you and I, and Mammy Edy — 
if we like. Oh, do come in and see, Mamma, 
how nice it is ! " 

"Walk in, marm, walk in," said the carpen- 
ter, "I guess you've come to see the house, and 
I've been makin' such a power o' noise I more'n 
likely ain't heerd you rap. Walk right in and 
look 'round. Your little gal here seems to hev 
took quite a shine to the place, and if you like 
it half as good as she does, we'll mebbe strike 

a bargain afore dinner time." 

5 



"True" 

"There is no doubt I should like it," was the 
quick reply, as the lady turned in this direction 
and in that, in compliance with the child's, 
enthusiastic entreaties, "but what rent do you 
ask!" 

"Wall," and with a rough, labor-hardened 
hand he pushed the old felt hat upon one side, 
and meditatively scratched his head, "Squire 
Aldrich's place, jest up the road, ain't no ways 
better 'n mine — a few more gimcracks, mebbe. 
but for solid comfort, mine's ahead. He lets 
his'n this week for three hundred, and I cal- 
k'late that wouldn't be no ways onreasonable 
for this," and he looked up to note the effect 
of his statement, and the chances of concluding 
a bargain with his gentle customer. 

But a shadow rested on the fair face that 

met his gaze, and the voice was very sad that 

answered: "Not at all unreasonable, I dare 

say, but far beyond my means ; indeed I knew 
6 



Landlord and Tenant 

it was useless to trouble you. You must excuse 
me. Come, Dorothy, we must be going. ' ' 

"Wall, don't be in a hurry, marm," and as 
the lady turned at his bidding, Ezekiel Trueman 
looked into her pale, calm face, and a strange 
expression of mingled sympathy and embar- 
rassment came into his own. 

"I had an idee," he went on, "that is, I was 
a-goin' to say that if it was agreeable to all 
parties — I had an idee — leastways, I had no ob- 
jection — wall, you see, me and tluldy — Huldy's 
my sister — she died last fall — we've lived here 
nigh onto twenty year, and its kinder hard on 
me to leave the old place. I did shet the house 
up all winter— jest gittin' it to rights agin — 
tried boardin', but it don't come natural — and 
as I was a-sayin', I had an idee that if I could 
git folks in here as would hev me — wall, I reckon 
you'd call it boardin' — why, I wouldn't put 

them out none, and I'd like it fust-rate — I ain't 

7 



i r u e 

around mucli, unless nights, an' I turn in mid- 
dlin' early." 

''And what rent would you ask under those 
circumstances?" inquired the lady, smiling. 

''Wall, that's the p'int. I calk 'late we'd set 
one agin t'other. I ain't such an almighiy 
feeder, but I reckon that would be about the 
square thing." 

' ' And the furniture 1 ' ' 

"Wall, I'd throw that in. There ain't so 
much of it, and it ain't so wonderful nice, but 
I'd like to see it around. What wan't fit to 
stay here in the settin' room you could put in 
the garret along with Huldy's spinnin '-wheel 
she had yet from her mother. But this here 
lookin '-glass," and he turned to an old-fash- 
ioned, gilt-framed mirror between the windows, 
"I'd like to leave that hang, for Huldy sot great 
store by that glass. It seems 'most I can see 
her now, fixin' it up, with tisher paper and 



Landlord and Tenant 

sparrer-grass. Poor Huldy!" and he brushed 
away a tear. 

The eyes of the lady were as wet as his own, 
and the minor chord of her own experience, 
which this simple soul had touched with his 
rough hand, thrilled in her voice as she replied, 
^ ' It shall certainly remain where it is. I would 
not move it for the world. ' ' 

And so it was, that amid the boisterous joy 
of little Dorothy, and the undisguised delight of 
the carpenter, the bargain was concluded, and 
Mrs. Eleanor Lane agreed to take possession 
the following week. 




A Glimpse of Heaven 



SI IX months went by, and tlie 
\\ young widow was almost as 
11 liappy as her little daughter in 
their new-found home. Such 
furniture as she had been able to save from 
the wreck of her married life, through the four 
changing years of her widowhood, made the 
cottage a palace in the eyes of its simple pro- 
prietor. Especially did he admire the marble 
busts and bronze statuettes, and among the 
pictures that adorned the walls the beautiful 
face of Beatrice Cenci had a special charm 
for him since Dorothy told him her own 
Mamma had painted it, ''with her very own 

hands." The refined and tasteful surround- 
10 



A Climpse of Heaven 

ings were to him a novel wonder and delight, 

while this half-year's daily intercourse with a 

cultured woman and a loving child, had been a 

glimpse of heaven. 

The affection between him and the little girl 

was something wonderful to see. Every night, 

long before the village clock tolled out the hour 

of release for the day's host of busy laborers, 

the child was watching at the gate for ^' True" — 

for such was the beautiful abbreviation she had 

made of the good old Connecticut name. At 

the first glimpse of the well-known figure, with 

dinner-pail in hand and tool-box on shoulder, 

she would run, fleet as the wind, to meet him, 

her fair curls floating on the evening breeze. 

She would take possession of the pail, and slip 

her own wee hand into the brawny palm, and 

as she danced on gaily by his side, looking up 

with sparkling eyes to relate her experiences 

of the day, or question him as to his, the man's 

11 



"True'^ 

face seemed transfigured in the new light and 
love that beamed upon it. 

But the widowed mother, seeing them thus 
together, turned often from the sight, bitter 
rebellion rising in her heart as she recalled one 
for whom she used to watch and wait — the 
majestic figure, intellectual face, and brave, 
true spirit, that had passed from earth before 
his little daughter's eyes had opened to its 
light; and she found it hard that his child's 
idea of 'Hhe papa of the home" should be this 
uncouth, illiterate man, good and kind and 
gentle as he was. 

Yet Eleanor Lane owed a debt of gratitude 
to this man, and hers was not the heart to ignore 
or forget the claim. His influence upon the 
child was as great for good as that the little 
fairy exercised upon him. The strong self- 
will and waywardness that had been the cause 

of many a hard-fought battle between mother 
12 



A Glimpse of Heaven 

and child, and had brought many anxious hours 
to the parent's heart, was restrained and sub- 
dued as if by magic under the unobtrusive and 
almost imperceptible guidance of this rude man, 
into whose life no child-love had ever before 
entered. 

To him, too, the little household owed half 
its comfort. It was he who, in the early sum- 
mer mornings, and in the hours after work, 
cultivated the little garden, until its yield of 
fruit and vegetables was a marvel to the neigh- 
borhood. When Mrs. Lane spoke of recom- 
pense he was half-amused, half -wounded at the 
idea. 

*'Pay me for workin' on my own place? 
That would be curious enough," he said. 

''But we get all the benefit of your labor," 
was the reply. 

"I guess I eat my share," was the homely 

13 



**True" 

response; and spade and hoe were plied more 
vigorously than before. 

And when the snow came, his strong arms 
cleared the numerous paths and walks about the 
place, and on idle days, of which at this season 
he had not a few, many a huge log found its 
way down from the woods upon the hillside, 
and, with Dorothy looking on admiringly at 
swinging axe or flying saw, resolved itself into 
fire-wood that was piled up, fortress-like, as 
ammunition for the little castle against the 
winter's siege. When sensitive Mrs. Lane ven- 
tured to speak of this as an expense which she 
must be allowed to meet, his hearty response 
was, ''Why, bless you, marm, I must be a-doin' 
something. I can't whistle and whittle all the 
time, as folks say us Yankees do, and I would 
n't feel to home if I couldn't do the chores as 
I allers done." And his tenant realized that 

not in dollars and cents could she remunerate 
14 



A Glimpse of Heaven 

this eccentric individual for the time and labor 
thus bestowed. 

In winter and summer alike his inventive 
brain and skillful fingers were ever occupied 
with something for little Dorothy's pleasure. 
Such sets of furniture for the doll house, such 
cradles and carriages and countless little won- 
ders of use or beauty, as came from his busy 
hands! Often at night, looking out over the 
snowy garden, Mrs. Lane would see a gleaming 
light in the window of ' ' the building, ' ' — a small 
structure used as tool house and work shop in 
the rear of the house — and know well that faith- 
ful, loving hands were there spending hours of 
labor over some little toy for her rosy, slumber- 
ing darling. This means of employment was, 
indeed, a great boon to the honest fellow, for 
his evenings he had found hard to dispose of. 
Until Dorothy's bed-time he was perforce in 
the sitting room with the little family, for there 

15 



"True" 

was always sometliing to look after, in the way 
of dolls' fractured limbs, disabled chairs, or 
"unsatisfactory tables; but when the young 
mother returned from bestowing the child in 
her bed for the night. True had always van- 
ished. 

Sometimes the soft notes of his flute would 
steal up from the kitchen, but more often there 
was neither sound nor sight of him till the 
beaming light across the snow revealed to her 
his whereabouts and occupation. 



Common Ground 



O. . _ F Dorothy's tastes and fancies, 
\\ True had made a study, and 
jl knew well how to gratify them. 
With her he was on terms of 
greatest ease and familiarity, but of her mother 
he seemed to stand more and more in awe as 
he knew her better. Her comfort and conven- 
ience it was always his delight to serve, but 
surreptitiously if possible. He shrank from 
her presence as dazzled eyes from the light — 
ever conscious of the great disparity between 
them. His child-like nature met the child on its 
own plane, while between him and the refined 
woman there was a gulf he could not cross. But 
circumstances bridged it finally, for good or 
for ill. 

17 



A terrible affliction overtook poor True. 

Mrs. Lane had long noticed the uncertain 
step and slow movement, so different from the 
usual quick, brisk manner, and little Dorothy 
had told her mother, with sobs, how True took 
her in his arms one day and * ' cried real tears, ' ' 
but coaxed her not to tell. At last it could be 
disguised no longer — he was blind ! 

An oculist from the neighboring city was 
summoned, and pronounced it cataract, but 
some time must pass before an operation could 
be performed. And now the gentle, tender- 
hearted woman had ample opportunity, which 
she was not slow to improve, to minister to the 
rough, kind hands and honest heart — to give 
service for service. 

An easy chair in the most comfortable corner 

was appropriated to his use, and mother and 

child devised ways and means to while away 

the long, tedious days for the idle, restless man. 
18 



Common Ground 



When he went out to the village, which he at 
first refused to do in very shame at his help- 
lessness, little Dorothy was his loving guard 
and guide. Her baby hands were ever on the 
alert to lead his uncertain fingers to objects for 
which they groped; her childish prattle won 
him from his melancholy thoughts ; and often, 
as he sat with the sweet burden on his knee, 
his merry whistle or hearty laughter rang out 
cheerily as ever ; and Mrs. Lane found her little 
daughter's childish play more efficacious than 
her books or papers, or most painstaking con- 
versation, to interest the helpless invalid. 

Just in one way could she best minister to his 
comfort. The words of Scripture seemed to 
him to take new meaning on her lips, and the 
fervent, humble. Christian soul found in this 
fact alone an ample compensation for his afflic- 
tion. He listened spellbound as she read his 

favorite Psalm — that sweetest one of confidence 

19 



"True" 

and tru^t, the Twenty-third — and once he im- 
pulsively exclaimed: 

*'When I come to die, I jest hope them words 
will be the last I hear on this here side of Jor- 
dan." 

"Where is Jordan, True?" asked Dorothy on 
his knee, but he had drawn back into his old 
reserve as he felt upon his face the upward 
glance of the reader's eyes. 

He was always sad and subdued when in her 
presence, and oftentimes, as she looked upon 
his sightless face as he sat patiently in his easy 
chair, her eyes would fill with tears and her 
heart overflow with sisterly affection. Yet, 
when her voice softened to address him, or her 
ministrations for his comfort brought her near 
his side, he was embarrassed and ill at ease, 
though to the child he turned as the heliotrope 
to the sun. 
20 



Common Uround 

But the child-nurse fell sick, and anxiously 
delivered into her mother's hands her little 
daily duties to her beloved True. The poor 
fellow shrank from every touch of the gentle 
jBngers, and sought to escape as far as possible 
the little services he had accepted so gratefully 
and humbly at the smaller hands. But both his 
embarrassment and self-imposed deprivations 
escaped notice, for although during the first 
few days there seemed little cause to doubt the 
doctor's assurance that the child's illness 
was trivial, the mother's prescient soul had felt 
the approaching danger from the first; and 
when it burst upon them like a tiger in ambush 
waiting to give the deadly spring, she only grew 
a shade paler than before, — more vigilant and 
faithful she could not be. 

Those were terrible days in that devoted 

household, where the child lay unconscious or 

raved in wild delirium, while the angels of life 

21 



"True" 

and death battled above the little couch ; terri- 
ble for the widowed mother, whose only hold on 
life lay in that small form; terrible for the 
good old nurse, who suifered with the mother, 
rather than for the child, for to her the stricken 
woman was still her ''little Missy," whom she 
had nursed from babyhood in their sunny 
Southern honie ; terrible for the helpless, faith- 
ful True, about whose soul seemed to be gath- 
ering the same thick darkness that had already 
shut out from his eyes the light of day. 

Kind neighbors came and went with pitying 
sighs and hopeless whispered words, and the 
December winds swept round the house with the 
despairing wail of human voices. Day and 
night the mother watched — untired, unrelieved. 
Day and night the faithful True sat with sight- 
less eyes turned towards the door of that sacred 
room, his eager ears drinking in every sound, 

but listening in vain for any hopeful one. 
22 



Common Ground 



One night, in that darkest honr before the 
dawn, when nature herself seems lying in the 
shadow of death, the cold dew drops on her 
brow — that black, oppressive time when God 
and heaven, life, hope and happiness, seem 
farthest off, and wicked men and wicked spirits, 
dark deeds and thoughts and every evil thing, 
nearest at hand — in that dark hour, on the 
third day of the hard-fought fight, the blind 
man groped his way, entered noiselessly the 
sick-room and approached timidly the bed 
where the watcher whispered the words he had 
heard so sadly often — ''No change. '* 

A smothered sob from an adjoining room fell 
upon his ear. By a sudden impulse he fol- 
lowed the sound, and his outstretched hand 
rested upon a woman's bowed, despairing head. 

''Oh, True! True!" she cried, "how can we 

give her up?" 

23 



"True" 

The name by which she addressed him ! The 
tone, the words ! The man swayed like a willow. 

Had an angel from the highest heaven 
stooped and lifted him from the darkness of 
this earthly life to that blest abode, to gaze 
with eye imblanched upon the dazzling glories 
there, he could not have been more filled with 
rapture and amaze. In that moment he stood 
upon a level with this woman whom his adoring 
soul had set like a star in the heavens above 
him. A common grief had made them equals. 
He fell upon his knees beside her, and her cold 
hand was wet with his tears. 

It was but a moment, and she was summoned 
to the sick room, where faint, quivering little 
sighs announced the dreaded change which 
Mammy Edy had prophesied would come at this 
dark hour. And with the change came life and 
hope; through the darkness the dawn was 

streaming; and on the first gray beams of 

24 



Common Ground 



morning light the dark angel fled before his 
victorious brother. With his departure the 
shadows lifted from house and hearts, and all 
was hope and gratitude and joy. 



Too Bright 



THEEE remained now but the 
\\ blessed task of nursing back the 
^j child to health and strength, 
and, ere the happy Christmas 
tide was come, she sat, a guardian angel, at the 
bed where the blind man went down into the 
depths of unconsciousness — that strange simili- 
tude of death — while skillful fingers made the 
attempt to bring back to him the priceless boon 
of sight. 

And when at the end of that long fortnight of 
alternate hope and despair, the decisive moment 
of experiment had come, her trembling little 
hands untied the bandages, and it was her joy- 
ous face, almost as bright and rosy as when he 
26 



Too Bright 

saw it last, that first greeted his grateful, happy 
eyes. Then they were raised eagerly to that 
other face he had so longed to look upon since 
that dark night when in his blindness and his 
grief she had opened to him the portals of 
heaven, which ever since had stood ajar. 

How he had drunk in the blessed music of her 
voice as she read or sang away the remaining 
hours of his imprisonment ; how trembled with 
a strange delight, when her gown brushed by 
him as she passed his chair, or her hand met his 
while ministering to his daily needs. But now, 
although her eyes were wet with tears of happy 
sympathy for him, and though her hand clasped 
his with words of congratulation and of joy, yet 
as he looked upon her she receded to the far-off 
heights on which she stood before, and, covering 
his face with his hands, he moaned aloud. 

' ' Is it too bright 1 ' * was the startled, anxious 
question. 

27 



"True'' 

"Oh, yes," he murmured, *'too bright! too 
bright for me." 

And when the time of probation was fully 
past, the bandages thrown away, and the clear 
gray eyes looked upon the world once more, it 
all seemed strangely altered to his altered vis- 
ion. The skies were not so blue; the fields 
had lost their freshness and the trees their 
green — a shadow was on them all. Only Dor- 
othy's face shone in unchanged upon his 
troubled, bewildered heart, and with her uncon- 
scious help he took up the old life again. Again 
he set out to his work in the early morning, and 
again he returned with the child dancing at 
his side. Again he labored in the little garden, 
and again he stole from the family circle, and 
with his flute sought to exorcise the uneasy 
spirit that possessed him. 

Thus the poor heart battled bravely on, while 

the innocent cause of all its woe unwittingly 
28 



Too Bright 

made the conflict harder every day. For while 
to him each day increased the immeasurable 
distance between them, each one drew this 
woman nearer to his side. His devotion to her 
child, and his generous, lovable nature, had 
awakened in her heart a tender admiration and 
regard. The beautiful soul shone through the 
rough exterior and homely words, and, recog- 
nizing thus the real man, she greeted him as a 
brother. Besides all this, their mutual sym- 
pathy in joy and sorrow was a strong tie, and, 
never dreaming of the possibility of any affec- 
tion on his part other than that she felt for 
him, it was ever her loving effort to break down, 
as far as possible, the barriers that birth, edu- 
cation and circumstance had raised between 
them. 

And he gave her no cause to suspect the wild 
conflict raging in his heart. His manners and 

his words were in no way changed to all out- 

29 



"True" 

ward seeming, except that both had lost in large 
degree their iincouthness, in obedience to that 
law of assimilation to which we are all subject, 
and the constant effort of the man himself to 
learn the language of this new world in which 
he lived. Confidentially and humbly he begged 
Dorothy to be his critic and teacher, and with 
wonderful tact and delicacy did the little maiden 
fill the role. 

So the summer passed, and with the falling 
leaves of autumn another shadow fell upon the 
little home. The loving, watchful heart that 
longed to come between this woman and every 
form of ill that could befall her, had pondered 
much concerning the buff business-like enve- 
lopes of '^Eobb & Steele" that he had brought 
so often lately from the postoffice — for he was 
postman of the little family; had noted, too, 
the eagerness with which she always seized 
them, and the sad, weary look upon her face 
30 



Too Bright 



when next lie saw her ; the nntasted supper, the 
involuntary sigh. Then came a cessation of the 
unwelcome messengers, and True rejoiced 
greatly, for the happy holiday time again was 
near — the time for care-free, joyous gladness. 
Yet sadly he still observed the anxious look 
upon her face. 




A Solemn Oath 



T was Christmas eve. A tall 
cedar, felled by True's hand, and 
planted in its moss-covered bed, 
stood in the little parlor adorned 
and laden for the morrow. Mrs. Lane had 
been speaking to him chidingly and gratefully 
on his lavish expenditure of gifts, both beautiful 
and useful, for the eager, expectant little Dor- 
othy ; and as they labored together hanging the 
wondrous fruit upon the tree, the barriers that 
ever stood between them seemed to fall, and in 
sharing joy over the child as before they had 
divided grief, they stood again on common 
ground. 

** Don't be in a hurry,*' he stammered, as 

32 



A Solemn Oath 



Mrs. Lane, fatigued by the long day's labor, 
prepared to leave the room. She could but 
smile at the familiar formula, but she saw that 
he had something unusual to say, for he 
was pale, and his hands were thrust nerv- 
ously into his pockets, a habit which, under 
Dorothy's tuition, he had quite discarded. 

'^'I want to say," he began, "that I have got 
something here I was a-going to put on the 
tree, but" — and fumbling nervously in his 
breast pocket, he drew forth a paper and pushed 
it along the table towards her. 

*'I have had it on my mind quite a spell 
back," he said, ''for we can't never tell what's 
a-going to happen, and I ain't made for old 
bones anyway." 

Mrs. Lane paused, and, with a pardonable 
look of curiosity, took up the paper. 

"This Indenture," she read aloud, taking in 

only the principal words as they caught her 

33 



"True" 

eye, "by and between Ezekiel Trueman, of the 
first part, and Mrs. Eleanor Lane, of the second 
part, witnesseth, that the said party of the first 
part, for and in consideration of one dollar, 
doth hereby sell, convey and confirm unto said 
party of the second part" — she read a little 
further in silence, then raised her swimming 
eyes to the anxious, watchful face. 

* ' My friend, ' ' she cried, ' ' do you imagine for 
a moment that I could take advantage of this 
generous impulse to rob you of your home?" 

"That ain't the way I look at it," he an- 
swered, taking courage as he spoke, and rally- 
ing all his forces to gain entrance through the 
breach he had made. "It wan't no home to me 
till you came in it, and I will take more comfort 
from it yet to know that you'll be here when 
I am gone. I couldn't be happy in heaven," 
he cried, "knowing that anyone had the right to 

turn you and Dorothy from this door if so 
34 



A Solemn Oath 



be you wished to stay. Take that and it can't 
be done; take it and you have a home — not 
such a one as you ought to have, but still a 
home. ' ' 

"No, no, I cannot," she answered. "What! 
see you living here under your own roof, raised 
as you have told me by the hard labor of years, 
on my sufferance, by my permission ? Never ! ' ' 
And folding up the paper, she put it into his 
hand. But it fell from his open fingers to the 
floor. 

"I living here," he echoed; "and if I were 
not living here? If I should go awayl" 

She looked up quickly, with startled, inquir- 
ing glance. 

"Don't you know that I would do it?" he 
cried, with eyes aglow, and a sob in his tremb- 
ling voice. "Don't you know that I would do 
anything in the wide world to serve you?" 

Utter astonishment, sharp pain and bitter 

35 



"True" 

self-reproacli flushed and i3aled her face alter- 
nately, but before she could collect her scattered 
senses for reply, the man had come to himself, 
and was earnestly pleading for forgiveness. 

^'I have nothing to forgive," she murmured, 
pushing back the hair from her throbbing tem- 
ples. ''And I am sorry, sorry, sorry. All I 
can do is to go away as soon as possible 
—but, oh, my God!" she cried involuntarily, 
''where shall I go?" and dropping her face 
upon her hands she found relief from the vary- 
ing emotions that crowded upon her, in a flood 
of tears. 

The sight was new agony to the tortured 
man. 

"Don't, don't!" he pleaded. "Forget what 

I said! I didn't mean nothing — I never 

thought — I never meant — " Poor heart! It 

dared not say, "I looked for no reward beyond 

the bliss of laying my all at your feet, of loving 
Z6 



A Solemn Oath 



and living humbly in your sight, or going from 
your presence if in that way I could serve you 
best." 

A moment was enough to restore the woman's 
calm. 

^'My friend," she said, ''we will not blame 
each other for this unhappy ending of our life 
together; and when I go" — 

' ' Go ? " he cried, distractedly. 

''I must," was the quiet answer, ''for your 
sake and mine. I shall go next week if I can. ' ' 

"Go! next week!" he murmured, sinking 
back upon his chair; "out in the cold and the 
snow! I have suffered everything thinking 
how others might put you to that when I wan't 
here, and now I've done it myself, with my 
accursed tongue ! Oh, God ! my punishment is 
greater than I can bear ! ' ' 

His face was hidden for a moment, and then, 
rising suddenly to his feet, ' ' Listen ! " he cried. 



37 



"True" 

There was a new, strange tone in tlie familiar 

voice, and Eleanor Lane looked up involuntarily 

in answer to the peremptory call. Could this 

be the meek and timid man ever embarrassed 

in her presence and shrinking within himself 

at her approach, now towering above her with 

calm, proud face, under the gaze of whose 

steady eye's hers shrank abashed? 

"Listen!" he said again; "I never took an 

oath before, but here I swear" — and one hand 

was laid upon the Bible at his side, the other 

raised heavenward — '^that at the first sure 

sign of your departure, I go from this 

house and town for good and all. Weeds may 

grow to the tops of the windows, and every 

beam and rafter rot away with time, but never 

will my foot cross that door sill — never will I 

set eyes on this spot again — but I'll wander, 

like Cain, a vagabond on the earth. Don't go, 

and I will bless you till I die ; and don't be feel- 
38 



A Solemn Oath 



ing hard with me for giving yon such a choice — 
it's the only way I can half set right the wrong 
I've done. See, here's the paper that brought 
j^on all this trouble, — though God knows, ' ' and 
his voice broke with a moment's returning 
weakness, "I meant only good. See, it won't 
do no more hurt," and he thrust it in the fire. 
''There now, let all be as it was before; I'll 
never remind you of this night by word or 
look — you can trust me." 

Was it fancy or reality, that touch upon her 
hair, soft and gentle as a woman's kiss? A 
fancy surely, for looking up the next instant 
she found herself alone. With a sense of be- 
wilderment and loss she crept to her room and 
to her pillow, and, clasping little Dorothy in her 
arms, wept away the aching at her heart. A 
headache kept her in her room the following 
day, and it was not till night that she saw the 

man whose position towards her was so 

39 



**true 



changed — whose love, so suddenly revealed, 
filled her with such pain and compassion, and 
who now held her a prisoner in his house by 
the very strength of his affection. 

They met at the Christmas tree, where Doro- 
thy was beside herself with wonder and delight, 
and again it was love for the child that bridged 
the gulf between them. 



Clouds and Sunshine 



L»i r IFE went on again in the little 
\\ house apparently as before, bnt 
IB daily the helpless woman was 
trying to find some way of escape 
from the net that held her. More and more 
anxiously she watched the coming of the mail, 
and when at last with foreboding heart poor 
True brought another of the ill-omened letters, 
she tore it open on the spot, and, with one hur- 
ried glance at its contents, fell senseless at his 
feet. Mammy Edy carried her off, with loud la- 
mentations but business-like celerity, to her own 
apartment, and poor True paced his little room 
all night, or listened at his half-open door for 
any sound that might relieve or enlighten his 
aching heart. 

41 



<< *lr ^ — ^ >> 



T r u 

He was told in the morning that she was 
better, and before night she resnmed her place 
in the little family, but pale and nervous, start- 
ing at every sound; and he knew well that the 
sword which had hung suspended for weeks 
above her head had pierced her through at 
last, and the faithful heart bled as if the wound 
had been its own. 

He saw the clouds of care settling down 
upon the face so fair to him, and flew from her 
presence to wring his hands in sheer despair 
that he was powerless to scatter or avert them. 
Bitterest thought of all, that by his own mad- 
ness and presumption he had closed forever 
the door of opportunity he might have found 
to minister to her comfort in a thousand ways ; 
that through his own act he was doomed to sit 
idly by and see her suffer. Shut out from her 
confidence, he imagined the direst evils, and 
indeed his fancy could hardly paint them more 



Clouds and Sunshine 

disastrous than they really were. The letter 
from which she had hoped and feared so much, 
that was to lift her to affluence through an in- 
vestment in which she had been led, by some of 
the ''Scribes and Pharisees who devour widow's 
houses," to risk her all — the letter whose com- 
ing she had so longed for, yet dreaded — had 
come, only to tell her she was penniless. 

Armed with wealth, that open sesame to most 
barred gates that block our way, she might have 
found some means of escape from her painful 
position, but now she was helpless — and home- 
less but for the roof of this man who loved her 
and whom she could not love. 

Time went on, and daily the horrid skeleton 
of Poverty secured a firmer foothold in the little 
home. Pitilessly he faced the distracted woman 
till her eyes had the frightened look of a deer 
at bay, and the color that had crept up to her 

cheek vanished, leaving it whiter than it had 

43 



"True" 

ever been. He even sought to check the 
merry laughter of the child, and about poor 
True threw a shadow darker than the night of 
blindness he had known before. 

The bony fingers robbed the little house of all 
its precious trifles. One by one the pictures 
vanished from the walls, and the marbles and 
bronzes from their places. Then from the gar- 
ret was brought down the old easel keeping 
company there with Huldy's spinning wheel, 
and all day long the busy fingers toiled, making 
a business of what in former days had been a 
pastime, in the effort to satisfy this grasping 
demon. But the pale, sad woman too often re- 
turned from her weekly journey to the city, paler 
and sadder than when she went, and with the 
burden upon her arm and heart unlightened. 
Each time she thus returned a pair of watchful 
eyes glanced anxiously at the gleaming jewel, 

which, ever since the day they first admiringly 
44 



Clouds and Sunshine 

beheld it, had stood guard above the plain gold 
band that circled the marriage finger of the 
slender hand. 

Later than ever shone now the light from the 
window of ''the bnilding," but no sound of 
hammer or saw was heard within. A suffering 
man, impatient of the narrow limits of his 
sleepless room, paced here the weary nights 
away, or sat lost in thought, his face buried in 
his hands. 

Nightly gleamed the light, and daily the 
shadow deepened. On poor Mammy Edy, too, 
it fell, and the dusky face seemed even darker 
in its shade. But her eyes grew bright, and her 
voice trembled half with awe and half with joy, 
as at the bedside of her mistress — prostrated at 
last in the weary battle — she told with bated 
breath of how the store-room, unreplenished, 
still remained supplied. 

"I clar ter goodness, hit's so, honey! De 

45 



"True*' 

days er maraculums ain' ober yit! De 
Lawd is good! Dat's so fer true! Didn' 
de cliillern er Isrel stan' in de fiery fur- 
nis an' de fiah nebber swinge dey liar? An' 
wen dey come out didn' dem low-down white 
trash what put 'em in mek tracks 'way from 
dar? Dey sho' did! An' didn' de widder 
omman git down ter one bar'l er meal, an' yit 
had plenty er hoe cake kase de meal nebber gib 
out? Dar 'twas! An' neider will yon bar'l 
er flour and taters gib out, honey, twell dis 
storm be ober pas'. For fo' weeks now, I'se 
tuck out ebery day, an' dey stays jes so; dar 
ain' no mo' an' dar ain' no les', but lak de 
widder 's karosene oil dey fail not! Dar 'tis. 
An' jes so wid de coffee an' de tea an' de 
sugar — w'eneber I goes ter de boxes dey's 
allers jes so. Dis yere's true ez gospel, Missy, 
min' wat I tells yer. Dis chile's no fool. I 
tole Mr. Zek'I 'bout hit wen I fus' foun' hit out. 
46 



Clouds and Sunshine 

He wuz mightily sot back — an' tole me ter tell 
nuffin' 'bout hit; an' I ain' gwineter, but lak 
Mary in de Bible I keeps all dese t'ings an' 
ponderate in mah heart." 

The next day Mrs. Lane was about the house, 
and the next she went to the city upon "busi- 
ness," and when on her return Dorothy pulled 
off her gloves to chafe the cold, tired fingers. 
True grew deathly pale and turned away — the 
ring was gone. 

Barrels and boxes in the store-room, and the 
coal bin in the cellar, were now piled up to the 
brim, much to Mammy Edy's most righteous 
indignation, who declared it was ''flyin' in de 
face er de Almighty, an' makin' light er his 
wonders in de land er Ham." 

Poor little Dorothy was once more childishly 
happy in a bright, new dress and a pair of soft 
kid shoes, while Mammy Edy scolded as she 

47 



"True" 

dropped big tears on the stouter, larger ones 
that ''Missy" bestowed upon her. 

And now the poor robbed hand rested awhile 
from its labors, and the terrible sacrifice, once 
made, brought peace and quiet to the tired, 
tortured heart. It almost seemed as if the 
cruel fate that held this struggling soul had 
but waited for such a costly offering to loose 
her from his bonds, for with the very next 
evening's mail there came an order from the 
dealer who gave her little pictures a place 
in his window. He had a customer for another 
copy of the ''Beatrice Cenci," and two of the 
"Flower Girl," and this was but the beginning 
of better times to come, for similar orders oft 
repeated came faster than the fragile fingers 
could fulfill them, although, nerved by hope 
and strengthened by success, they accomplished 
wonders. 

Spring came, the busy hands worked on, and 

48 



Clouds and Sunshine 

the pale face grew brighter every day. Through 
the open window snatches of happy song floated 
out upon the balmy air where the busy gar- 
dener toiled, and little Dorothy's questions 
went unanswered for a time. Everything was 
brightly, joyously happy. Leaves were flutter- 
ing, birds were singing, and the circle on the 
lawn was a fragrant, glowing mass of hyacinth, 
violet and crocus. True whistled cheerily at 
his work in the borders, and the gleeful laugh 
of the child rang through house and garden. 

Sometimes at the little girl's approach her 
mother would impulsively catch her to her 
heart, as if rejoicing over her escape from 
some threatened danger; and True, catching a 
glimpse of this — perhaps through the open 
window — would brush his hand across his eyes 
and whistle louder than before. 

Mammy Edy, sharing in the general glad- 
ness, broke into a hearty, ^'yah, yah, yah!" on 

49 



"True" 



the slightest provocation, or with dignified 

solemnity sang her favorite camp-meeting 

song ; 

"O, Moses smote de water 

An' de sea gib way. 
De chillern dey pass ober, 

Fer de sea gib way. 
O, Lawd, I feel so glad, 

It am allers dark fo' day. 
So honey, don' be sad, 

Fer de sea'll gib way." 

Sometimes at sight of the lonely ring upon 
her finger, the old shadow crept across the 
busy artist's face. The wonderful success of 
her little pictures had enabled her to leave 
almost untouched the roll of bank notes with 
which she might yet have recalled the missing 
jewel had she not put it forever beyond her 
reach. She had felt that she could never wear 
again the precious souvenir, profaned by the 
touch of vulgar, mercenary hands, and so had 

sold it outright to a responsible jeweler, and 

50 



Clouds and Sunshine 



when, after a few weeks, encouraged by her 
success, she had gone back hoping to repurchase 
it, it was gone — sold the day after it had been 
left sparkling in his window. But she turned 
resolutely from the painful thought, grateful 
that for one grief her success had brought her 
there was the blessed compensation of inde- 
pendence for the present and sweet promise 
for the future. 




"I Will Fear No Evil" 



peace, plenty and prosperity 
reigned in the little cottage, and 
under their genial sway dark- 
visaged care had fled, while 
health and hope and happiness peeped out tim- 
idly from every nook and corner of the home. 
To Eleanor Lane the incidents of the past win- 
ter seemed like the vague remembrance of a 
dream. Certain it was that not for the man's 
sake, apparently, had there been any need of her 
"going out into the cold and the snow," from 
which fate she was not ungrateful to think that 
he and her own hard circumstances had jointly 
combined to save her. His cheery whistle ever 
gave notice of his approach, and his happy 

face shone like a sunbeam in kitchen and parlor 

52 



"I Will F>ar No Evil" 

alike. His gentle, loving heart seemed over- 
flowing with good will to all, and his busy hands 
were busier than ever ministering to the com- 
fort of servant, child and mother. To Dorothy 
he devoted himself with redoubled assiduity. 
She was his idol and queen. Every wish she 
uttered, that did not militate against her own 
best good, it was his happiness, if possible, to 
gratify. 

At her suggestion a wide and long piazza 
replaced the little porch over the front door 
of the cottage, and, the march of improvement 
once begun, it was almost a summer's work. 
One idea suggested another, and soon a bay 
window upon one side, and a commodious wing 
upon the other, almost transformed the little 
house into a wide- spreading mansion. 

''It won't do the place no hurt," the owner 
said, and Mrs. Lane wondered what idea he 
had in view. Then her taste was called upon 

53 



"True" 

to furnish the empty rooms, but, absolutely 
refusing to occupy them, since there was no 
need, the key was turned upon the new carpets 
and upholstery, and the little family lived on 
as before. Mammy E dy was ' ' af eard Mr. Zeke 
gwineter git married, and we-all gits notice 
ter quit," but Mrs. Lane's surmises did not 
tend in that direction. 

Little Dorothy was pupil now as well as 
teacher, and the hour between supper and bed- 
time was given to her lessons. 

It was the night of the twenty-third of Decem- 
ber. Perched upon True's ever-ready knee, 
circled by his loving arm, she spelt and read 
her self-appointed task, and then the book was 
laid aside, and the curly head nestled on his 
breast, lost in sweet visions of the Christmas 
tree already planted and waiting for its beau- 
teous burden. Then followed a sparkle of 

childish prattle, mysterious whispers and rap- 
54 



"I Will Fear No Evil" 

turous clasping of tiny hands, till the mother 
announced that the extra half hour in honor 
of the occasion had' expired and the little bed 
was waiting. 

Twice the child returned from the open door 
to say good night to her fond and faithful 
friend. Twice he lifted her in his arms, and, 
pushing back the golden hair, left warm and 
tender kisses on the baby face, and when she 
had departed he followed her to the hall, and 
begged "one more" between the railings of 
the stairway. From where she stood she could 
only reach his forehead, and there she left her 
last good night, true and tender as an angel's 
blessing. On these two hearts, so knit together, 
had fallen the far-otf echo of approaching ill. 

When Mrs. Lane returned to the sitting room 
she was questioned anxiously with regard to 
Dorothy's health, and every incident of the day 
was discussed, seeking the slightest excuse for 

55 



« 'T' _ .. - »> 



rue 



alarm concerning her. The mother's heart, 
ever scenting danger in the air, also took alarm, 
and she bent anxiously above the sleeping child 
ere she went to her pillow. Bnt morning found 
the little fairy bright as the sun that streamed 
through the curtains as she awoke. True had 
long since gone to his day's work, the raising 
of a barn that must be finished ' ^ so Squire Aid- 
rich 's poor cows can have a new home for the 
one that was burned down," as he had told 
Dorothy. 

Quietly, as on many a day of doom, the morn- 
ing hours were passing, when suddenly, in the 
child's voice, rang out a startled cry. Up the 
snowy garden path four men were bearing with 
slow and careful step a litter, from which hung 
a black covering like a funeral pall. 

Suddenly as came the summons, it found the 

two women of the little household at their posts. 

One bore away the struggling, frantic child, and 
56 



"I Will Fear No Evil" 

the other, after one questioning word, led the 
way to her own chamber, largest and most com- 
fortable in the little cottage. A few swift 
movements of the dexterous fingers, and the bed 
was ready for its burden — the mangled form of 
the stalwart True. Then all stepped back to 
make room for the hastily entering physician. 

A glance of the practiced eye, a hand laid 
for a moment upon pulse and heart, and he 
turned away. 

''Doctor, is there no hope?" inquired a 
woman's anxious voice. The answer was 
prompt and decided. 

"None. There may be returning conscious- 
ness before the last, which is not many hours 
away, but the chances are that he will remain in 
this comatose condition to the end. ' ' Sadly and 
slowly the four friends stole from the room, the 
doctor left his orders, and Eleanor Lane was 
alone with the dying man. 

57 



"True" 



"Oh, my poor, poor True," she murmured, 
with streaming eyes, as she wiped from the pale 
and parted lips the oozing blood, ''Speak! 
speak, once more ! Come back and leave your 
gentle blessing with us ere you go I " 

Under the warm baptism of her tears, or in 
response to the pleading voice, the gray 
eyes slowly opened, and a heavenly smile 
lighted the pallid face. A powerful restora- 
tive left by the physician was administered by 
the trembling hands, and the almost stilled 
machinery of life moved slowly on again. 

''When I lay there — on the ground," he mur- 
mured, "where that beam sent me — I only 
prayed — for strength — to bear the pain till they 
could bring me home — to die — with you. ' ' 

She made no response except to take in both 
her own the outstretched, trembling hand. 

"But the end is coming — fast," he added, "I 

must be quick. In my vest pocket — on a bunch 

58 



**I Will Fear No Evil" 

of keys — please take them now — you will find 
one larger than the rest, and one — that's very 
small. They open the blue chest in the garret — 
and a little box you'll find inside. You must 
not blame me" — 

The words died on his lips, and when next 
he spoke it was but the babble of delirium. He 
was walking home with Dorothy in the sum- 
mer sunset. He was whistling at his work for 
Dorothy in the little ''building." He was fell- 
ing vigorously, with the poor, shattered arm, 
a Christmas tree for Dorothy's holiday. He 
was whispering tender words of counsel, re- 
proof and love to Dorothy on his knee. He was 
thanking God in fervent, homely phrase, for the 
blessing that had come into his life, and plead- 
ing earnestly for all heavenly blessings on 
child and mother. 

But sometimes sadder pictures tormented the 

fevered mind, and he piled reproaches upon 

59 



"True" 

himself for the pain he had brought the gentle 
heart which beat for him now so tenderly, as 
the woman at his side bent over him with com- 
forting, caressing words. Thus passed long, 
weary hours before pitying sleep at last 
hushed the tired lips and tortured brain. 

His strength was ebbing fast when he awoke, 
but his mind was as clear as the shafts of light 
thrown by the setting sun across his bed. 

''Bring Dorothy," he whispered, as Mrs. 
Lane bent tenderly above him. But the child's 
frantic grief he could not bear, and when his 
hand had been laid in tender blessing on the 
disheveled curls, her mother with gentle force 
led her away. 

Kind, pitying neighbors took her vacant place 

beside the bed, and one whispered her to hasten 

back, for the end was near. More painful 

every moment grew his breathing. Strong 

hands changed his position, seeking for relief, 
60 



"I Will Fear No EviT* 

but every respiration was a groan, till the pale 
nurse returned, and, seating herself upon the 
bed beside him, lay the poor tossing head upon 
her bosom, and soothed with soft, caressing 
touch his restless agony. 

*'Is that better r' inquired a sympathizing 
friend. 

*'I don't mind it now," was the reply. 

One by one friends and neighbors stole away, 
two of his companions who bore him home re- 
maining within call ; and, alone with the one he 
most could wish in all the wide, wide world, the 
dying man went down into the dark valley. 
With tender touch the gentle hands wiped the 
drops of heavy moisture from his brow, while 
others were falling on his cold face from hers. 

''Tears, and for me?" he asked with incred- 
ulous tones of mingled joy and sorrow. 

"Oh, my dear, good friend," she sobbed, "I 

want to tell you how gratefully I shall always 

61 



"True" 

remember the good that you have done in so 
many ways to me and mine. But you will meet 
one yonder who will thank you better than I 
can. ' ' 

"I will tell him," was the simple answer, 
''that I did what I could." 

A spasm of pain contracted the rugged fea- 
tures. 

'*It is so hard," she cried, ''to see you 
suffer. ' ' 

"I do not suffer," was the answer, as he 
fixed his eyes on hers, "leastways I hardly 
know it if I do." 

But the dark shadow was creeping across 
his face, and his thoughts must be lifted from 
human love to Love divine. 

' ' True, dear True, ' ' said the trembling voice, 
"do you hear mef Do you understand?" 

Clear and low came the answer, ' ' Yes — I 
hear — I understand." 
62 



"I Will Fear No Evil" 

Then through the silent chamber rang the 
beantiful words, ''The Lord is my Shepherd; 
I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in 
green pastures ; He leadeth me beside the still 
waters ; He restoreth my soul ; He leadeth me in 
the paths of righteousness for His name's sake. 
Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the 
Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil" — 

He listened with a peaceful, placid smile, 
and, echoing the words ''I will fear no evil," he 
stepped across the narrow boundary that lies 
between us and that blessed land where evil 
cannot enter. 

Little Dorothy was sobbing in her sleep, and 
the unadorned Christmas tree rose ghost-like 
in the little moon-lighted parlor, as Eleanor 
Lane looked out across the snowy garden to the 
dreary ''building," from whose windows no 
familiar light was streaming. But she did not 
recall that other night of a year before, nor 

63 



True" 



cast one thought into the future. She was 
lifted up to a sphere above the earth, to which 
that parting soul had carried her, and down 
from the starry dome through the ''wonderful 
night" she thought she heard the angels' 
Christmas song, which, as she listened, seemed 
verily the keynote of that vanished gentle life — 
' ' Peace on earth, good will toward men, ' ' 




Gage d 'Amour 

I^^fyT was the day after the funeral, 
\\ and with sad heart Mrs. Lane 
^S prepared to carry out the wishes 
^V| of the departed True. The blue 
chest opened easily to her hand — but what was 
this that met her sight? Dozens of her little 
pictures, framed and unframed, carefully 
packed and hidden there. Humiliation, dis- 
appointment and a flood of tender feeling swept 
over her in turn. On the top of all lay a letter 
directed to herself, and with tear-dimmed eyes 
she slowly deciphered the unpracticed hand. 

''Don't blame me," she read, ''It is the only 
way I could help you. If you can forgive me, 
send notice of my death — for you will only read 
this when I am gone — to the address below." 

65 



"True'' 

She hastened to fulfill this last request, and 

then, with the broken-hearted little Dorothy on 

her knee, tried vainly to peer into the future. 

The expense of removal, the half-year's rent 

for their new home, wherever it might be, the 

daily needs of her little household — how were 

they all to be met? What madness and folly 

seemed now the innocent, tender longing to 

which she had yielded, to exchange that precious 

roll of bank notes — the price, she almost felt, 

of the Judas-like betrayal of her happy past — 

for some other gem to fill the vacant place upon 

her finger and be an ever-present reminder of 

that more cherished one forever gone. Of course 

it could be sold in turn, but her heart sickened 

over this trafficking in her purest, most sacred 

emotions, and she knew moreover that by the 

time they were again transmuted into gold it 

would be far less than they had brought before. 

And the little income which she supposed the 
66 



Gage d * A m o ur 

labor of her hands would ever bring her^ and all 
the hopes and plans that clustered round that 
thought, had now vanished like a dream. 

In the midst of her painful reveries the door 
opened and Mammy Edy ushered in a visitor. 
He announced himself as Israel I. Trueman, 
"cousin and nearest of kin to the deceased," 
and Mrs. Lane recognized in the stern, hard- 
featured man a strong family likeness ; but the 
mild, benevolent expression that softened all 
the rugged features of the one had no exist- 
ence here. He was, unless his looks belied him, 
a close and calculating, shrewd and avaricious 
man. He had no time to waste, but proceeded 
at once to business. He had already made ap- 
plication for the necessary papers, and would 
like to have possession of the little estate by the 
first of the month if possible — certainly not 
later than the tenth under any consideration. 

She was ignorant of the fact that he had no 

67 



"True" 

legal right to enforce his cruel haste, and sleep- 
less nights and distracting days were again her 
portion. 

It was New Year's eve, and no light had yet 
dawned upon her darkness. Again came Israel 
I. Trueman to the little cottage, and pompously 
exhibited certain documents, on the strength of 
which he declared that three days was the ut- 
most limit of time he could allow for her de- 
parture. Little Dorothy clung to her mother's 
dress and looked timidly at the strange man, so 
like and so unlike her own dear True ; and Mrs. 
Lane made no answer. Ringing in her ears were 
the words uttered so long ago — and faithful 
memory retained every accent and tone of the 
voice that was still — ''I couldn't be happy in 
heaven, knowing that any one had the right to 
turn you and Dorothy from this door. ' ' 

"You understand what I'm sayin', I sup- 



Gage d * A mo ur 

pose?" was the rude inquiry, as with a far- 
away look in her eyes, and pale as death, she 
stood in the center of the room. ' ' If the house 
ain't vacant in three days, I shall hev to take 
legal measures to hev it so." 

"One moment, my friend." The speaker 
was a dapper, active little man, whom Mammy 
Edy had just shown in, and who seemed greatly 
interested in what he had overheard. 

''Are you not rushing matters a little?" he 
continued. "Written notice of ejectment must 
be given previous to dispossession, a point 
of law you surely must be acquainted with. 
But wait a moment and I think I can save you 
all further trouble. Your pardon, madam," 
and the little man turned respectfully to the 
bewildered woman, "Mrs. Lane, I believe?" 

She bowed mechanically. 

"Mr. Johnson, at your service. I only re- 
ceived yesterday, on my return to town, your 

69 



"True" 

note informing me of the death of my client, 
Mr. Ezekiel Trueman, and hastened at once to 
fulfill the mission entrusted to me. This, my 
dear madam," and he quietly unfolded a legal 
document, ''is the last will and testament of 
our departed friend, duly executed, signed and 
sealed in my presence one year ago this very 
day," — and he gave with unction the formal 
legal j)hrases — ''bequeathing to Eleanor and 
Dorothy Lane and to their heirs and assigns 
forever, all real estate and personal property 
of which he died possessed — 

"My dear madam," exclaimed the lawyer, 
putting a glass of water into Mrs. Lane's trem- 
bling hand, as he helped her to a chair, "com- 
pose yourself, I beg. It is only evil tidings to 
which we should yield like this." 

While the eccentric little stranger was ex- 
plaining further the contents of the will and the 

details of the modest estate, the former claimant 
70 



Gage d 'A m o ur 

quietly withdrew, and Eleanor Lane at last be- 
gan to realize that the hand of the faithful True 
had again been lifted to smooth her path, and 
that even in death he still watched over her 
that no harm might befall. 

The "personal property" — mostly the ac- 
cumulated savings of many years' hard labor 
of this man of simple tastes and habits — was 
more than ample to provide for all the wants of 
the little household, while -the beautiful cottage, 
remodeled and refurnished according to her 
own ideas and tastes, belonged to her "and her 
assigns forever." 

Shall I attempt to portray the fullness of 

gratitude and reverent tenderness that filled 

this woman's heart to overflowing till the joy 

of it was almost pain? What could he have 

done for her or for her child that he had left 

undone 1 So she mused, as tenderly she removed 

the pictures his hands had laid in the old blue 

71 



"True" 

chest, to hang those he most admired on the 
walls of his own little room, which was to re- 
main "True's room" forever. 

' ' For who can tell, Mamma, ' ' said little Doro- 
thy, ''but that God will let him come sometimes 
to see how happy we are here; and won't it 
please him, don't you think, to find his own 
room waiting for him still, and see that we 
never, never, never can forget him?" 

Almost the last picture was taken from its 
hiding place when the little box he had spoken 
of, and which she had forgotten, suddenly met 
her eye. She turned the key in the tiny lock, 
and the light from the half-closed shutter was 
caught and reflected in a thousand changing 
hues by the brilliant diamond that gleamed 
within. 

Could it be — it surely was — her own be- 
trothal ring, to whose loss she had sought in 

vain to reconcile herself this whole past year! 

72 



Gage d * A mour 

Trembling she carried it to the window, seek- 
ing the inscription that ought to be within the 
golden band. 

"Gage d' amour," she read aloud with 
streaming eyes. A gage d'amour indeed! And 
it was replaced upon her finger, doubly sacred 
and precious now; nor did she shrink from 
sharing the holy associations that clustered 
round this precious relic of her past, with the 
new and tender memories that must remain for- 
ever in her heart. 



Bertie s Snowball 



Bertie s Snowball 



HIS Bertie is the greatest boy 

T\\ for pets you ever saw. Some- 
^jj times it is a half -drowned fly he 
has fished out of his mug of milk, 
and with it he divides his ''cakes and sugar 
candy" till Margaret, in dusting the sideboard, 
lifts the goblet that shuts it in, and the un- 
grateful pet takes wings and flies away. 

Then comes a storm between the luckless 
Margaret and ' ' the little masther, ' ' as she calls 
him, but she promises to write home to her 
''first cousin," who is coming over in the 
spring, to bring with him "the swatest throosh 
that sings in ould Ireland's hedges," and this 
far-away bird in the bush consoles the unhappy 

little boy. 

77 



Bertie's Snowball 



Perhaps a fat, hairy caterpillar is the next 
pet this odd little fellow takes to his heart. I 
know of one he had for a week, and then, as it 
wouldn't eat the leaves he brought it, he be- 
came afraid it would starve to death, and so 
let it go. In he came, one sunny morning, from 
the garden, smiling bravely but his eyes full of 
tears. **Well," he said, *' Furry 's gone. The 
minute I put him on the walk he just galloped 
off. I loved him very much, but he was glad to 
get away from me." 

The next pet, likely enough, is a grasshopper. 

Indeed, grasshoppers, butterflies, and millers,— 

yes, and once a mosquito, and once a spider, — 

have all in turn been tenants of the little glass 

house on the sideboard. Some of the occupants 

ran away without paying their rent, and others 

got turned out while their tender-hearted little 

landlord was out of the way. 

Once or twice he had a fish that he found 
78 



Bertie's Snowball 



alive on the string the fish man brought for 
breakfast, and once he had an angle-worm in a 
little box of earth that had to be overturned a 
dozen times a day to see if ' ' Bait ' ' was all right. 
I used to think if little Mr. Bait had known his 
name, and what it meant, he wouldn 't have been 
quite comfortable in his mind. 

But the biggest and prettiest and dearest 
pet of all was the little white rabbit of which 
I sat down to tell you. 

/^NE day Bertie went on a visit to his little 
cousins, and when he came home he found 
that a friend of his Mamma had sent him this 
little white rabbit. Oh, you never saw such a 
proud and happy boy ! He could not find words 
to tell how pleased he was, or how much he 
thought of his new pet. And certainly she was 
a beautiful little creature. Plump, and soft, 

79 



Bertie*s Snowball 



and white, she looked almost like a snowball — 
and "Snowball" she was named immediately. 
She had such pretty, long ears, each one with 
a rose-leaf inside — I mean they looked as if 
they had — bright, pink eyes, tiny mouth, and 
clean little nose, and, as Bertie said, "her 
funny little whiskers were the cunningest of 
all." 

Uncle John built Snowball a pretty little 
house, with a wire door, and windows of real 
glass, and with two nice rooms inside — a front 
and back parlor. The back parlor was Snow- 
ball's bedroom, where she had a bed of nice, 
soft hay, and the front parlor she used for a 
dining-room, as I suppose she did not expect 
many calls. One of her neighbors, a little 
black-and-tan, that lived next door, would have 
liked to call, I dare say, but he never got an 
invitation! Indeed, if Snowball saw him ever 
so far off she ran away from the window as 



80 



Bertie's Snowball 



quickly as possible, for fear he might think 
she wanted to see him. 

Every day Bertie would take Snowball out 
to get the fresh air, and with a long blue ribbon 
tether her on the grass-plot under the cherry 
tree ; and he was so afraid the saucy little 
black-and-tan would spy out his pet, that he 
never left her alone on the grass, but would sit 
and watch her for an hour at a time. 

T% UT now I come to the sad part of my story. 
The fall was coming on, and Jack Frost 
went about at night, pinching all the poor plants 
black and blue, and blowing his cold breath 
in the morning-glories' pretty blue eyes so that 
they could never open them again, and — what 
was worse than all — spoiling all the lettuce and 
cabbage leaves that Snowball needed for her 
breakfasts and dinners. One night Bertie said 

81 



Bertie's Snowball 



to his mother, as she was putting him to bed: 

' ' Oh, my dear little Mamma, what shall I get 
tomorrow to feed Snowball? She had nothing 
today but parsley, and not a drop of milk, for 
Margaret needed it all for the custard. ' ' 

Mamma promised to get something in the 
house to feed Snowball through the winter, and 
to ask Uncle John if her little bed-room would 
be warm enough for her when the real cold 
weather came. 

Early in the morning Bertie ran out to give 
Snowball a saucer of warm bread-and-milk. 
Grace was being said when he came in to break- 
fast, so he sat down quietly in his place and 
nothing was said about Snowball, but about ten 
o'clock he came laughing to his Mamma. 

''Well," he said, 'Hhat Snowball is the great- 
est little sleepyhead this morning I ever saw. 
I have called her, and called her, and knocked 
on her house, and I can't wake her up. Free 



82 



Bertie's Snowball 



times I have warmed her milk and carried it 
out to her, and had to carry it back again. ' ' 

His mother only said, ''Indeed!" and then 
asked Bertie to go on a little errand for her. 
As soon as he was out of sight, she went right 
out into the kitchen and said, ' ' Margaret, please 
come with me. I think your arm is long enough 
to reach into the rabbit house, and I am afraid 
the poor little thing is dead." 

''Ah, don't be afther saying that!" said Mar- 
garet; but, alas, it was so! For, with many 
loud words of surprise and grief, Margaret took 
out her hand, and in it poor little Snowball, 
stiff, and cold, and dead ! Bertie 's mother, you 
may be sure, felt very sorry, but she hadn't 
time to say a word, for, turning round, she saw 
her poor Bertie, his dear little face almost as 
white as the rabbit itself, and his hands clasped 
tight together. He could scarcely believe poor 

Snowball was dead; and when she kindly and 

83 



Bertie's Snowball 



pityingly told him that it was really so, he went 
on like a crazy little boy. 

'^It is all your fault, Margaret," he screamed. 
' ' You used up all the milk for your bad, hateful 
custard, and poor Snowball hadn't anything 
yesterday but parsley." 

^ ' I wonder if the parsley could have done it, ' ' 
said Mamma to herself. 

''It did! It did!" shrieked poor Bertie; 
"and Uncle John ought to have told me it 
would kill her. It is all his fault — he didn't 
care for poor Snowball — nobody loved her but 
me — not even you, Mamma — or you — you would 
have done somefin' so she wouldn't die — so it's 
your fault, too, Mamma. Oh, my poor little 
Snowball!" 

His mother felt so sorry for him that she 

didn't speak one word of blame for the naughty 

way he was talking, for she felt sure he scarcely 

knew what he said, and would be sorry for it 

84 



Bertie's Snowball 



by-and-by. She just put her arm around him 
and led him into the house. At the door they 
met little brother Charlie — a dear little fellow, 
just three years old. His blue eyes were very 
wide open and his little face looked troubled. 
At sight of him Bertie's sobs broke out afresh. 

' ' Oh, Buddy, Buddy, ' ' he cried, ' ' Snowball is 
dead ! ' ' But then another thought came to him. 
''And it's your fault," he said, ''for you helped 
to pick the parsley that killed her — oh, you 
wicked little boy!" 

Then Mamma had to kiss the big tears off 
poor ' ' Buddy 's ' ' cheeks, for his baby heart was 
quite broken by such dreadful words from his 
big brother, for though Bertie was only two 
years older, Charlie thought he was almost a 
man, and loved and worshipped him with all 
his little heart. 

When the little boy was comforted, Mamma 
took her big boy on her lap and kissed him, 

85 



Bertie's Snowball 



and wiped away his tears as well as she could, 
and pretty soon he threw his arms about her 
neck and said, ' ^ Oh, Mamma, I know it is all my 
fault and nobody else's, and that makes me feel 
badder and worser all the time. ' ' 

His mother said all she could to comfort him, 
and told him that it was no one's fault at all — 
that little white rabbits were very delicate, and 
would sometimes die with the best of care — 
that parsley was a kind of food they often eat, 
and that it certainly was not his fault the least 
little bit. 

JL T night when Mamma was putting both her 
*^ little boys to bed and telling them funny 
stories, but without a word about rabbits or 
pets of any kind, Bertie suddenly said : 

* ' Mamma, there 's one good thing about Snow- 
ball. When I go to heaven I'll have some one, 
86 



Bertie's Snowball 



to play with and love me till I get acquainted 
with the angels." Then, taking a big swallow, 
*'You are sure, Mamma, there's plenty of fresh 
lettuce there, and that Grod won't let little 
black-and-tan hurt or frighten her?" 

His mother told him she was quite sure there 
was everything in heaven to satisfy all the 
wants of those who lived there, and that God 
would let nothing hurt or frighten the very 
smallest of his creatures in his happy home. 

' ' No, not even Snowball, ' ' said the little boy, 
''of course He won't, for if I love her so much 
when I am so little, and — so naughty some- 
times," he added softly — "how much more God 
must love her, when He is so much bigger and 
gooder than I am. 

"But, Mamma," he went on, "you say that 
when people die they don't die really — only go 
out of their bodies, and that is all that dies. 
Well, Mamma, if that was the way Snowball did 

87 



Bertie*s Snowball 



it, wliy didn't her little body, — her poor little 
body, I saw in Margaret's hand," and he gave 
another big swallow and rubbed his little fists 
in his eyes, — ''why didn't it look flat, Mamma? 
If Snowball went out of her skin it ought to be 
ilat, you know," and he brought his two little 
hands together so close there wasn't room for a 
pancake between them. ''And so it was," he 
added thoughtfully, as he remembered the poor 
little creature lying on her side with little feet 
outstretched, so different from the white puff- 
ball she had always been before. 

"But, oh, Mamma, why couldn't she have 
stayed in her pretty little body a while longer, 
when I loved her so ? " 

His mother told him that a great many people 
older than he had asked the same question, and 
that no one but God could answer it. 

"I'll ask Him about it, then, the very minute 
I get to heaven," said Bertie with a sob. 



Bertie's Snowball 



''Well, darling," she said, "I wouldn't talk 
any more about it now, but say your prayers, 
and then kiss Mamma good-night." 

' ' I want to say one thing more, ' ' said the lit- 
tle boy, and he drew her face close down to his. 
"I am sorry I talked so naughty today when I 
was crying about Snowball; and you were so 
good and never said a word. ' ' 

And not a word did she say now, but kissed 
him a great many times, and then began saying, 
"Our Father," as she did every night. Both 
little voices joined with hers, and when Charlie 
had said "Amen," — for he was always a little 
way behind, because he was such a little fellow, 
Bertie said, and had such a little tongue — 
Mamma kissed both her boys again, and then, 
sitting on the side of the bed, she sang to them 
softly until they fell asleep. 



Charlie's Messenger 




Charlie's Messenger 



T was kite-time. Charlie and his 
big brother had been busy all the 
morning making a ''three- stick- 
er," and a great deal of trouble 
they had, as well as pleasure, in putting it to- 
gether. Charlie's share in the work was some- 
thing like that of the boy who blew the bellows 
of the organ. When this boy spoke of ''our 
music" the organist laughed at him, but when 
he stopped blowing in the middle of a beautiful 
voluntary, the frantic performer was quite 
willing to share with him the credit of the work 
if he would only go on blowing. 

So poor Charlie, when the kite was done, 

didn't get any credit for its beauty or general 

93 



Charlie's Messenger 

excellence, yet he had as much to do with the 
final result as the organ-blower had with the 
music. It was Charlie who went down cellar 
and hunted through the kindlings for the sticks 
that the big brother whittled down for the 
frame. It was Charlie who ran to mother for 
the newspaper, and, after a good deal of coax- 
ing, got away with an Illustrated Christian 
Weekly, with a picture of an eagle on it to 
fly up in the clouds. He got it from a pile laid 
away to be sent to the hospital, but it was such 
a splendid idea for a kite — that eagle — that 
mother let it go. It was Charlie who mixed 
the paste, getting the flour all over his little 
blue suit and Nora's clean floor, thereby draw- 
ing down on himself reproof from mother and 
Nora, too. It was Charlie who ran for the 
scissors, and tore up the old pillow-case into 
strips for ' ' tail, ' ' and went to the grocery for a 

ball of twine, and in fact did all the drudgery 
94 



Charlie's Messenger 

that was to be done; and then stood gazing at 
that wonderful big brother making the kite, 
with such a look of admiration on his little face 
that mother had to stop and kiss it while she 
was trying to brush the flour out of his coat. 

This big brother was only two years older — 
and Charlie was only six — but he was a wonder- 
ful boy in Charlie's eyes. Hadn't he written a 
letter to St. Nicholas once, and wasn't it pub- 
lished with the name to it and all I Couldn't 
he do real sums on a slate, and when he wanted 
to see a boy who lived up-town, didn't he just 
sit down and write that boy a postal-card to 
that effect, and send him — Charlie — with it to 
the letter box at the corner? 

Couldn't he draw '^efelants" — as Charlie 
called them — and bears, and camels, and 
giraffes, and then cut them out — a whole menag- 
erie full? Some people might not know which 

was the camel and which the giraffe, but 

95 



Charlie's Messenger 

Charlie did, and only pitied their ignorance. 
There was no doubt in Charlie's mind concern- 
ing the wonderful ability of that big brother of 
his, and he ran his errands and bowed down 
before him, and followed his guidings, like a 
little loving slave. And the big brother didn't 
abuse his power more than poor, weak human 
nature is apt to do. 

YHJLjTHEN the kite was at last finished it was 
carried off in triumph to the common, a 
whole army of boys admiring and congratulat- 
ing the proud builder, and Charlie bringing up 
the rear with an armful of tail which he had 
been called upon to go back and disentangle 
from a rosebush. Mother at the window heard 
all the boyish talk as the little group went by, 

and smiled over her baby's ruling passion as 
96 



Charlie's Messenger 

she heard him say, ''Don't he make nobby kites, 
though ! ' ' 

Ten minutes later he came dashing into the 
house. The kite was up! The eagle was out 
of sight! The kite itself was almost beyond 
the clouds! Oh, how it pulled! He had held 
it just for a minute, and it almost pulled him 
off the ground ! He had been sent in for paper. 
They were going to send up messengers. You 
just put a piece of paper on the string, and 
away up, up, up it goes until it reaches the kite. 
That big brother had told him so. And he 
danced up and down with impatience till he got 
the paper, and then was off like a flash to see 
this new mystery that wonderful boy had 
brought to light. 

P EETTY soon there was again the patter of 

little feet on the walk, and into mother's 

room again came Charlie- — cheeks redder, eyes 

97 



Charlie's Messenger 

brighter, and excitement greater than ever. All 
the messengers had gone up out of sight ! The 
kite was but a speck! It was '* ^most into 
heaven!" That big brother was the authority 
for this statement, and mother hadn't a word 
to say. 

But when she kissed the little boy he threw 
his arms about her neck and kissed her in return 
so earnestly that she knew there must be some- 
thing going on in that little brain, some deep 
feeling stirring in the little heart, for he seldom 
had time or inclination, in the fever heat of the 
day's occupations, for much caressing or social 
pleasures. That was generally left till bed- 
time, when mother washed the little hands and 
faces, and gathered from her two little boys an 
account of the day's troubles and pleasures; 
rejoiced with them over its joys, pointed out its 
evils and prayed with them that Infinite Love 
might rule all its events for good. 
98 



Charlie's Messenger 

That was generally the only time that very 
much was done in the way of kissing, so mother 
knew there was a special reason for this unusual 
caress, when that wonderful kite was away up 
" 'most in heaven," and that wonderful boy, 
the big brother, was holding on with his giant 
strength and still 'letting out," while a host 
of interested spectators were issuing orders as 
to the proper management of the ' ' Eagle, ' ' and 
the news of its wonderful flight was spreading 
like wildfire through the neighborhood. 

''I wish I could write!" said little Charlie, 
with his arm like a fishhook round his mother's 
neck. ''I wish I could write." 

Mother, with no idea of what was in his mind, 
offered to write for him, and, with pencil in 
hand and paper before her, waited for the little 
boy to speak. 

He leaned one elbow on the desk, and, with 
his cheek in his hand, looked up in her face. 

99 



Charlie's Messenger 

''Write down 'Dear papa,' " he said softly. 
Mother's hand trembled and her eyes grew dim, 
but she wrote it. 

"I am your little boy, too" — that was the 
next sentence — "and when I come to heaven I 
will know you by your picture." 

But mother couldn't write any more, and 
when she laid her head down on the paper and 
cried, poor little Charlie was in great distress. 
Again the little arm went round her neck. 

"I only wanted to write somesin' to dear 
papa," he said, "while I had such a good 
chance. Maybe the kite will never go up into 
heaven again." 

IjEAE little Charlie! His papa died — went 

to heaven, the boys said, and that is the 

right way to put it — before Charlie was born. 

The little fellow always thought it very hard 
100 



Charlie's Messenger 

that he had never seen his papa, and was 
troubled to think that his claim hereafter on 
that papa's love, or even acquaintance, might 
be very uncertain. He had had many a talk 
with his mother about it, who had comforted 
him as best she could, and told him all the 
sweet, precious things she herself believed on 
the subject. But here, Charlie thought, was an 
opportunity for him to speak for himself, and 
to hold direct intercourse with that dear father, 
whom, having not seen, he loved. Each boy 
had the privilege of sending up one messenger 
by that far-soaring kite, and his should go up 
into heaven itself. Oh, sweet faith of innocent 
childhood ! 

Mother wiped her tears away finally — or 
Charlie did for her — and then she told the little 
boy that loving thoughts and prayers could soar 
higher than the farthest soaring kite, and reach 
heaven by a nearer, quicker way; that angel 

101 



Charlie's Messenger 

'* messengers" would carry straight to dear 

papa every loving thought of his little heart, 

and that they would know each other well when 

they met, although they had never seen each 

other on this earth. 

Then she sent him out for further news of the 

wonderful kite, and, when his little feet had 

pattered past her window and their soimd had 

died away in the distance, she took down her 

Testament, and with the pencil that had written 

the letter for Charlie's messenger, she marked 

this passage: 

Except ye be converted and become as 
little children ye shall not enter into the 
kingdom of heaven. 




Joch 



Joch 




ITTLE Warren Sydney was 
about nine years old — a tall, 
stout boy for his age, with big 
blue eyes that gave him some- 
times a very innocent and sometimes a very 
surprised look. 

He lived in a picturesque village on the Hud- 
son, and his home was a large, white house 
shaded by tall trees and surounded by a fra- 
grant garden of roses, poppies and mignonette. 
At the foot of the garden a little purling brook 
glided along beneath the willows ''to join the 
brimming river," and the pretty home was 
called Brookside, and little Warren was very 
happy there. 

105 



J o c h 



Little Warren had a big brother, who wore a 
bhie coat and brass buttons, with stripes on the 
sleeves and an anchor on the collar, and who 
wrote "U. S. N." after his name. One day 
there came a telegram from this brother, whose 
vessel had come steaming into New York Bay 
a few days before, and thus it read : 

"Send hy express one monkey." 

When near home he would often write or 
telegraph to send him something by express — 
some article from his camphor-wood trunk or 
some book from his library — ^but such an incon- 
venient and impossible article as a monkey had 
never been ordered by him before. 

''It cannot be monkey," said sister Alice, 
"Can it be magnet?" 

''Or turkey f" said sister Annie. 

"Or meteor," added Kitty, who had snatched 
up the dictionary to find a substitute for the 



106 



J o c h 

puzzling word, ''or mermaid? or mainmast f 
Perhaps it is mainmast." 

The latter seemed a more likely thing for him 
to want, but one mainmast would be quite as 
difficult for them to send as one monkey. 

No, it was written plainly enough, "Send by 
express one monkey." 

"I know," at last said little Warren slowly — 
little Warren never hurried about anything — 
''he means he sends by express one monkey, 
and it's for me; 'cause he said once he would 
send me one." 

Sister Annie, who was sister-mother of the 
little family, laughingly said, "Why, of course! 
I remember that, too. How stupid we all are ! ' ' 

But Miss Alice, aged sixteen, who always ex- 
pected people to mind their p's and q's, said 
it was very absurd, and as puzzling as the mes- 
sage on the wall at Belshazzar's feast, and why 

107 



o c 



didn't he say "7 send by express one monkey?'* 
And, sure enough, why didn't he? 

TPHAT very night the expressman left at the 
door a wooden box, through the slatted side 
of which might be seen the ^'one monkey," a 
poor, shivering, frightened, unhappy-looking 
little wretch as ever lived! On the top of the 
box, after the address, was written, "One mon- 
key— Free— J C H." 

The word ''Free" seemed a cruel satire on 
the miserable little prisoner within, and 
"JOG H" — what did that mean? Altogether 
it was as puzzling as the telegram. But Alice 
said it was all plain enough — ''Free" of course 
meant that the box came through without 
charge, and the other was the monkey's name — 
"Joch" — and she gave it with such a French 

gutteral on the last letter that mischievous 
108 



J o c h 

Kitty laughed aloud, and even sister Annie 
looked amused. 

And so it was that ''Joch" became the mon- 
key's name. Alice always gave it the ' * Franco- 
Saxon pronunciation" as Kitty said, and the 
rest pronounced it more or less improperly, 
down to little Warren, who called it, in good 
English, "Jock." 

How the big brother laughed when he came 
home, and how they all laughed when they 
heard how Joch had come by his name. One 
day, in New York Harbor, a distinguished look- 
ing old gentleman, with a party of ladies, came 
to visit the ship, which had just returned from 
a long cruise. Lieutenant Sydney showed the 
party over the vessel and gave them much inter- 
esting information, and, on leaving, the visitor 
gave the young lieutenant his card, saying he 
was the president of a certain express company, 

and if, at any time, he could oblige him by send- 

109 



J o c h 

ing anything over their lines he would be most 
happy. Whereupon Lieutenant Sydney at once 
declared his intention of sending up the Hudson 
the very next day his little friend the Darwinian 
South Sea Islander, whose pranks had so 
amused the young ladies. 

The box stood there already addressed, and, 
a marking pot being near at hand, the pass- 
word "Free" was soon added, with the gentle- 
man's initials, "J. 0. C. H." And wasn't that 
the oddest way that ever man or monkey got a 
name? 

lOCH soon became quite at home with his 

new friends, and was, you may be sure, a 

great pet with them all. He was a pretty 

little fellow, not much larger than a good sized 

kitten, with the most earnest, expressive little 

face you ever saw. Kitty said he could talk, 
110 



J o c h 

and that his plaintive little prattle meant 
something. And no doubt it did. It certainly 
seemed different from a monkey's usual sense- 
less chatter. 

While little Warren claimed him for his espe- 
cial property, Joch seemed to belong, by the 
bonds of love at least, to every one. Sister 
Annie allowed him more liberties with her 
work basket than she accorded to any other 
member of the family, and the mysterious dis- 
appearances of her thimble, spools and buttons 
would have made "a fine hullabaloo in the 
house," as Kitty said, could the sin have been 
laid at any door but Joch's. 

True, she sometimes slapped his hands and 
called him ''naughty Joch," but when the 
absurd little creature covered his face with his 
ridiculous paws — which he always did when in 
disgrace, peeping out between his fingers, and 
winking his eyes faster than you could wink 

111 



J o c h 

yours if you practiced all day — what could any 
one do but laugh at the little rogue and pro- 
nounce him the most bewitching torment that 
ever lived? So did sister Annie, at all events, 
and Joch had many a cosy nap in her basket, 
curled up among the gaily colored yarns that 
beguiled her leisure moments. 

With the stately Alice, of whom even untame- 
able Kitty at times stood in awe, Joch was par- 
ticularly free. Without so much as ''by your 
leave" or "may it please you," he invaded her 
apartment, whose threshold none but favored 
mortals ever crossed; toyed with the pretty 
trifles on her bureau, emptied her scent bottles 
into her glove box, put her soap in her writing 
desk, her pens and pencils in her tooth dish, 
or sat perched in his favorite seat — the top of 
her pretty French bed — dropping peanut shells 
on the embroidered covers of her dainty couch. 

Kitty declared that if she had done one-tenth 

112 



J Q c h 

of this miscliief Alice would have beheaded her, 
without mercj^, on the spot. As it was, she 
only said, ''Why, Joch!" with a little stronger 
gutteral than usual, and laughed at the little 
scamp's real or make-believe signs of penitence 
and grief. 

But Kitty, the irrepressible Kitty — whose 
nickname was "Winnie Wildfire" — she and 
Joch were kindred spirits, and they enjoyed 
each other's society as keenly as congenial souls 
always do. He would chase her all over the 
house for the privilege of being carried about 
on her shoulder, where she would fondly place 
him after first leading him a fine race. Here, 
with the ribbon from her hair tied round his 
neck, Joch sat as happy as a king, except when 
Kitty pulled his tail, which insult he promptly 
resented by boxing her ears. 



J o c h 



IVJESSY, the youngest little girl of tHe family, 
thought she never could forgive Joch for one 
wicked thing he did. In the maple at the gar- 
den gate a robin red-breast and his mate had 
built a nest. Nessy had watched the work from 
the beginning, and thought she knew just how 
many little straws and threads and hopes were 
woven into the walls of that tiny home. Indeed, 
she had helped to build it, for many a little 
wisp of cotton or silk had she put on the gate 
post and then hid behind the lilacs to watch 
the robins carry them away. At last it was 
done, and by getting in just the right place 
she could see the wee head of the little mother 
bird as she sat patiently all day long, waiting 
for her nestlings. 

Now Joch was a great climber, of course — 
what monkey isn't? He skipped up to the roof 
of balcony or piazza, ran along on the wistaria 

vine and roses, or swung himself by the tail 
114 



J o c h 

from the branches. But the big elni, the circuit 
of whose trunk alone gave him quite a little run, 
was, for some reason, the only tree he cared 
to climb. When Joch was out of doors, if he 
left the piazza, he was always in the elm tree, 
and this fact gave Nessy relief from all fears 
for her beloved birds in the maple. 

But one day, led by some perversity, Joch 
climbed the maple. Nessy saw him scamper 
up to the first branch, swing himself to the next, 
and then up to the third, where, alas, in a 
secluded little notch, brooded the robin red- 
breast on the nest that she and Nessy had so 
carefully built. The distracted little girl, her 
heart in her ijiouth, cried wildly, ''Joch! Oh, 
Joch!" and then, doubtful of her own powers 
of persuasion, flew for her sister; but Kitty 
was too late. By the time she stood beneath 
the maple, confident of her ability to bring 
Joch to her shoulder, the little reprobate had 

115 



J o c h 

found the nest, and the only answer he made to 
her invitation was a little empty egg shell that 
fell on poor Nessy's upturned face. 

All Kitty's remonstrances, entreaties and 
threatenings were in vain. With the coolest 
impertinence of look and manner, Joch sat 
there, deliberately sucking the eggs one after 
the other, and scattering the tiny blue frag- 
ments at their feet. 

It was all over. Joch chattered; the poor 
little birds twittered, flying wildly about his 
head; Nessy cried; Kitty scolded; and little 
"Warren laughed. He said he couldn't help it — 
he felt sorry for the birds, and ''mad as pie" 
at Joch, ''but the little thief did look so funny." 

lOCH was in disgrace for awhile after this. 

Kitty absolutely refused to romp with him 

that night, and left him chained alone in his 
116 



J o c h 

cage all the evening, something which Joch 
especially disliked, and against which he re- 
belled with pitiful wails and pleadings. Nessy 
heard him after she had gone to bed, but her 
kind little heart was as steel tonight. 

''Good for you," she said, "I'm glad of it! 
What did you care when the poor birdies plead- 
ed with you I" And she covered her head with 
the blanket so she couldn't hear him (soft- 
hearted little Nessy), and went to sleep. 

In the morning, as she was hurrying down 
to breakfast, she heard Joch's plaintive voice, 
and, looking in the sitting room, saw him swing- 
ing back and forth on a picture frame in a great 
state of excitement and alarm. His weight had 
tipped the picture, which, for some reason, 
frightened him terribly — perhaps it was his 
guilty conscience — and he was wildly and pite- 
ously appealing to be taken down. 

''I won't do it!" said Nessy. ''I am glad of 

117 



J o c h 

it. You can just stay there and cry. And I 
won't tell a single soul either, and you'll have a 
good long time of it. Oh, you wicked, deceitful, 
treacherous little thing ! ' ' 

I don't know why she called poor Joch treach- 
erous and deceitful. He had never promised 
not to eat the robin's eggs. But these large 
and severe adjectives seemed to relieve Nessy's 
feelings immensely, and she went on down to 
breakfast, setting her little heels firmly on the 
stair in a way that said, as plainly as her words, 
that Joch must expect no mercy from her. But 
half way down she stopped. 

"If thine enemy hunger feed him; if he thirst 

give him drink. ' ' That was her Bible verse that 

very morning. It seized Nessy by her conscience 

and held her fast. ' ' When I read it upstairs, ' ' 

said the little girl, "I thought it was easy 

enough to do, for I was quite willing to carry 

things to eat to old Mrs. Croy when sister 
118 



J o c h 

Annie found out she was so poor, even if she 
did tell wicked stories about me last summer, 
saying I knocked at her door and then ran away 
— a thing 1 never would do in all my life ! But 
Joch is my enemy too, and it all means the same 
thing — and it's dreadful hard." And she went 
down one step. 

''Feed him — give him drink." Some one 
seemed to be saying the words in her ear; and 
she slowly turned and went up two steps. 

' ' He is only getting what he deserves, and he 

ought to be punished," said Nessy, and she 

went down three steps. Then she turned and 

ran as fast as she could to the sitting room, 

where Joch, hanging by his tail to the picture 

cord, was in a worse plight than ever. She 

rolled the sewing machine to the place, climbed 

on it by a chair and lifted Joch down, who clung 

trembling to her arm, and said, as plainly as a 

monkey could, that he looked upon her as a 

119 



J o c h 

friend even though she might regard him as an 
enemy. 

But Nessy was conscientious only. "I for- 
give you, Joch," she said, untwining his arms 
from hers, "because it is my duty, but I don't 
love you ! ' ' And she went down to breakfast. 

1 OCH'S misdemeanor was, after all, very soon 
forgotten. He was like those winning, be- 
guiling people whom we quickly forgive deeds 
that would long be treasured up against an ordi- 
nary mortal. 

The little rascal was very amusing — there 
was no doubt about that. It was too funny to 
see him with Mouser, the cat. It was for a 
time an open question whether Mouser would 
allow Joch in the family, and I think it was the 
sublime impudence of the intruder that won 

first her consent, and finally her complete trust 
120 



o c 



and affection. When at tlieir first meeting she 
drew up her back and spit and glared at 
him as if in doubt whether this new specimen 
of creature belonged to the rat, dog or human 
species, Joch walked deliberately up to her 
and took her paw, as if desiring to examine 
it, as well as to inaugurate a friendly acquaint- 
ance. He soon found out what it was good 
for by getting a violent tap that rolled him on 
the floor, and while he sat winking and blinking, 
and offering no retaliation for this insult, puss 
seemed to come to the conclusion that he was 
harmless, and that she could afford to patronize 
him. 

Mouser's ears were a never-failing source of 
curiosity and amusement to Joch. He would 
sit on her back by the hour, examining them 
most carefully, inside and out, smoothing them 
admiringly with his ridiculous little hands, or 

sticking his mite of a finger as far inside as it 

121 



J o c h 

would go. At this, puss generally gave her head 
a shake, or got up and walked away, Joch 
clinging to her back or tumbling ignominiously 
to the floor. 

¥ ¥E was a greedy little beast, was Joch, and 
"you could easily laugh yourself into fits," 
little Warren said, to see him — with his mouth 
so full he couldn't chew — holding his cheeks 
with his hands, and gently rubbing them down 
from temple to chin, as he painfully strove to 
get the unmanageable contents of his greedy 
little maw within the grinding process of his 
tiny jaws. 

Joch was very fond of meat, and he and 
Margaret, the cook, were always at sword's 
points, for Joch would watch his chance to slip 
into the kitchen, and, when her back was turned, 

make off with a chop or piece of steak, or a 

122 



J o c h 

bit of fat if he could find it, for he liked fat 
better than anything else. Indeed he seemed 
to like anything that he conld take "unbe- 
knownst," as Margaret said. 

When he became too mischievous he was 
chained in his house, but it didn't amount to 
much as a punishment, for he would go about, 
his chain dragging from his waist, and pulling 
his house after him, like a galley-slave. This 
suggested an idea, and a heavy weight was pro- 
cured, and then, when Joch was fastened to his 
ball and chain, he was more like a galley-slave 
than ever, except that he couldn't move at all. 

The little fellow was of course used to a warm 
climate, and in winter he felt the cold very 
much. Sister Annie made him a scarlet coat 
trimmed with black velvet, which Alice said 
was not becoming and quite destroyed his aris- 
tocratic, foreign appearance, while Kitty de- 
clared that it made him look like a hand organ. 

123 



J o c h 

''Like a hand-organ monkey, you mean," 
said little Warren slowly. 

"I mean what I say," said Kitty, "like a 
hand organ." 

But he hadn't even the life and spirit of a 
hand-organ monkey, and was never up to any 
of his pranks except when he got thawed out 
in the middle of the day. Morning and even- 
ing he could generally be found, shivering and 
miserable, sitting close to the stove, or even on 
it, till we used to say he would surely roast his 
brains if he had any — and we all agreed that 
he had. 

\17HETHEE it was the heat that did it, or 
the cold, or the huge piece of fat we found 
stored away in the little commissary depart- 
ment he had established for himself, we never 

knew, but Joeh fell ill, and though he was 
124 



J o c h 

nursed and petted to his heart's content by 
the entire family, it was to little purpose. The 
bright, black eyes grew dull and lustreless, 
and winked and blinked very pitifully now. 
The quick, agile limbs moved slowly and quiet- 
ly, and his chain alone held him prisoner — he 
had grown so weak that he could not move with 
even its light weight about him. 

Nothing could beguile him into play. 
Mouser's ears had lost all their interest as 
natural curiosities, and even Kitty's shoulder 
was no longer a vantage ground for frolic. The 
daintiest tid-bit he used to fight for with such 
spirit, he now would scarcely touch. Margaret 
brought little pieces of chop and steak for the 
"disthrisful little crayture," Nessy spent all 
her spare pennies for oranges and bananas to 
tempt his appetite, and little Warren said 
that if it was only the proper season he would 

get birds' eggs for Joch to eat. 

125 



J o c h 

He liked to lie behind tlie stove among the 
wools in sister Annie's work-basket — no other 
bed we could make for him pleased him half so 
well — or sit on Kitty's shoulder with his arms 
around her head, while his own was laid against 
her hair, and his wee face, as it nestled against 
hers, looked like a miniature of a feeble, sick 
old man. 

We coaxed our family physician to come and 
see Joch. He suggested it might be homesick- 
ness, and declared he "could not minister to a 
mind diseased. ' ' But he prescribed aconite for 
Joch's fever, and bromide for his nerves, and 
with these simple remedies, and constant care, 
we nursed our little invalid till spring. Then 
our Lieutenant came home for a flying visit, 
and we dimly hoped he might be able to do 
or suggest something for Joch. 

Perhaps it is true that familiarity breeds 

contempt, and that he had seen too many of 
126 



J o c h 

Joch's species in their native land, or perhaps 
he was one of those who could ''pine and die 
because of the great lake of universal anguish, ' ' 
but could not narrow down his sympathies to 
individual cases. At all events, he frankly con- 
fessed that he "couldn't get up much interest 
in a sick monkey, ' ' and when his skill or knowl- 
edge was appealed to on behalf of poor Joch 
he only recommended a ''generous amount of 
chloroform judiciously applied." 

/^NE afternoon, holding Joch, weaker and 
more wretched than usual, upon her 
shoulder, Kitty went to her brother's room to 
coax him for something she imagined she want- 
ed, and for which she knew it was useless to 
ask her father. 

"Wait till my brother comes home," she 

used to say to the girls at school, when one of 

127 



J o c h 

them became possessed of some scliool-girl 
valuable, and all the rest, like a flock of sheep, 
determined they must have one too. ''Wait 
till my brother comes home, and I'll have one 
a lot better than that." 

It was on one of these occasions, and the 
coveted good was especially coveted. Kitty had 
marshalled all her arguments in formidable 
array, clinched them with positive and unde- 
niable declarations of fact, and was winding up 
with an affectionate and persuasive peroration, 
when Lieutenant Sydney, putting the finishing 
touches to his toilet at the mirror, exclaimed: 

' ' Take care ! that poor little devil is going to 
keel over," and the next instant poor Joch did 
''keel over" and fell to the floor, for Kitty, in 
reaching the effective climax of her appeal, had 
withdrawn her protecting hand, to clasp it with 
the other around her brother's arm. 

With many self-reproaches and anxious fears 
128 



J o c h 

she tenderly lifted poor Jocli, and laid him, 
apparently senseless, in her lap. 

''Oh, what shall we do?" cried Kitty, help- 
lessly, with appealing hand stretched to the 
burean. ' ' Quick ! quick ! ' ' 

''I haven't anything here that would do him 
any good, if indeed there is anything, ' ' said the 
Lieutenant, brushing his coat. ''After life's 
fitful fever he sleeps well. Requiescat in pace!" 

But Kitty, choking with tears and indigna- 
tion, seized the bay-rum bottle, and, with tremb- 
ling hands, poured half the contents into her 
lap. 

"I don't see the use of sousing a dead mon- 
key," said her brother, ruefully regarding 
this lavish waste of his bay rum; "he doesn't 
appreciate it in the least, and neither do I, 
for that matter." But at this juncture Joch 
opened his eyes and looked up at the Lieuten- 
ant reproachfully. 

129 



J o c h 

''Hello, old fellow!" said that gentleman. 
''Never say die! But you don't belong to the 
temperance society, do you? Shall we follow 
up your treatment with a Bourbon straight, or a 
gin cocktail I" 

Joch didn't answer, or Kitty either except 
to murmur something about "an unfeeling 
wretch," as she gathered her patient tenderly 
in her arms and descended to the sitting room, 
where warmest sympathy and assistance would 
not be lacking. 

lOCH was subject to these fainting fits for a 
week or more, and the Lieutenant's bay rum 
suffered considerably in consequence. Then 
one day, without warning, and apparently 
without pain, poor little Joch quietly died, sit- 
ting on Kitty's shoulder with his arms about 

her head. His death caused real grief in the 
130. 



J o c h 

family. He was a pet with all, yet no one knew 
just how much he was loved till he was gone. 

Joch had a funeral that Margaret said was 
' ' illegant enough for a Christian. ' ' Lieutenant 
Sydney got everything for the occasion that the 
warmest friends of any pet could desire; and, 
considering that he did not look on the family 
aJBfliction in the light of a personal bereavement, 
he certainly behaved very handsomely. As a 
crowning and lasting tribute of his regard — or 
whatever the sentiment was that inspired him — 
he marked the spot in the garden where Joch 
had been laid to rest, with what Nessy called 
"the cutest little tombstone ever was." 

He offered, moreover, some beautiful and 
appropriate lines as an epitaph, but, like many 
another good article in manuscript, it was 
declined with thanks, and the Lieutenant re- 
turned to the service of his country convinced 

that literary merit is unappreciated. 

131 



o c 



But though deemed unworthy a place on 
Joch's tombstone, his touching and telling 
tribute to the hero of my story shall not be lost 
to posterity. I append it here, as that story's 
fitting close. 

" rXEFUNCT ancestor of the race of man, 
JL^ Let him trace out thy Hneage who can. 
Suffice it me to stand in reverence here, 
And sadly drop the tributary tear. 
Not mine, with captious mood, to pause and think 
Just how, by thee, oh, dear connecting link, 
I'm bound to kindred of the mighty past — 
The monad, eozoon, and protoplast; 
The troglodite, lemur, and all the clan 
Of pigmy brothers of the giant man ! 
Thou next of kin, twin brother of my soul. 
In thee I recognize and mourn the whole; 
Lie all the branches of my ancestral tree — 
Poor hapless orphan — in thy grave with thee !" 



The New Hippodrome 




The New Hippodrome 



H, Mamma, Mamma! Georgie 
Steele is going to the Hiccup- 
home, where you see all kinds of 
animals, and men swinging on 
ropes, and ladies riding on horses and standing 
on men's heads; and there's lemonade, and 
music, and peanuts, and — and everything! 
And can't we go too, Mamma?" And little 
Charlie went up and down on his toes, his yel- 
low curls tossing around the flushed and eager 
face. 

"It goes in at two o'clock," he continued, 
"and there's no time to lose. That's what 
Georgie's Uncle Tom said. So can't Mary get 
us ready before lunch? And will she take us, 

135 



The New Hippodrome 

Mamma, or will you? It is in a big tent, and 
you take tlie Orchard street cars, and ' ' — 

' ' But, my dear Charlie, ' ' and his mother put 
her arm around the excited little boy, who was 
still going up and down like the toy men on 
boxes which you wind up and who dance until 
they run down, ''I cannot, for many reasons, let 
you go to the Hippodrome today." 

She spoke so decidedly that Charlie knew it 
was useless to say another word; and the 
spring must have run down all at once, for he 
didn't go up on his toes again, but the little 
curly head went down, and down, and down, till 
it rested in his mother's lap, and two little fists 
rubbed two wet little eyes, leaving many black 
marks and rings on the baby cheeks. 

His mother put her arm around him and let 

him cry awhile, for he was but a little fellow, 

not five years old, and she knew by the wild 

way he had been going on how much of a dis- 
136 



The New Hippodrome 

appointment her words had given him. And as 
she looked tenderly down on the little yellow 
head lying in her lap, and smoothed the tumbled 
ringlets gently with her fingers, she seemed to 
be thinking of what she could do that would 
give some pleasure to the unhappy little boy. 

A ND so it was that when lunch was over Mas- 
ter Charlie was dressed in his new suit, and 
then Mary led him out to the piazza where 
Mamma and brother Bertie were waiting for 
him. 

''Now I'll take you to a Hippodrome that I 
like better than Barnum's," she said, as they 
walked down to the gate. 

"Is it under a big white tentl" inquired 
Charlie, a little doubtfully. 

" It is under a green tent, ' ' she answered, and 
Bertie smiled in a very knowing manner. 

137 



The New Hippodrome 



"And shall we see men tossing balls and 
swinging on ropes, and ladies riding on men's 
heads 1 ' ' asked Charlie breathlessly. 

"I don't know," answered Mamma, "just 
what we shall see, but I know it will all be won- 
derful and beautiful, if we only think so. ' ' 

By this time they came to Freeman's Cave, 
and the little boy said in a rather disappointed 
tone: 

"Oh, I know; you are going to the woods." 

But he was soon dancing along gayly upon 
the grass, or walking demurely at his mother's 
side, his hand in hers, while Bertie, head and 
shoulders taller, walked upon the other side, his 
hand slipped through his mother's arm; for 
these walks to the woods with her were a great 
delight to both boys. 

"See, the performance has begun," cried 
Bertie, as they reached the grove. "Here 

are the tumblers," pointing out to his brother 

138 



The New Hippodrome 

two 'Humble bugs" that were hard at work 
rolling their ball up a little hill. 

The little boy sat down upon the grass to 
watch them. The performer on the lower side 
held up the ball with his slender legs, and the 
one above pulled and scrambled with all his 
little might. Perhaps they were nervous at 
having spectators, or perhaps they had not had 
enough rehearsals. At any rate the little chap 
on top let go when he ought to have held on, 
and over went the ball on the poor performer 
below, tumbling him head over heels to the bot- 
tom of the hill. 

It was only about three or four inches, but he 

probably thought it was far enough, and the 

little rascal who let go came scampering down 

on his six little legs and made a great fuss as if 

he were begging the other's pardon and saying, 

''Indeed, I didn't mean to do it, and I assure 

you it won't happen again." 

139 



The New Hippodrome 

But the other fellow told him that if he 
thought it such fun to get knocked over he had 
better take the under side himself, and so they 
changed places and soon were in a position 
for a fresh pull — a long pull, a strong pull and 
a pull all together. 

"Yo! heave, ho! my hearties!" called out 
Bertie, as number one pulled away with his 
little leg-arms, backing himself up the hill in 
such a funny way that Charlie laughed aloud, 
and number two pushed below, and held up the 
heavy ball — heavy for him — like Atlas, Bertie 
said, with the world upon his shoulders. The 
work went bravely on for awhile, but then 
there was a slip somewhere, and away went ball 
and bugs, all three, down again to the bottom of 
the hill. 

But again it was ''up and at it," the brave 

little rogues! And this time they both went 

underneath and pushed "until they got red in 
140 



The New Hippodrome 

the face," Charlie said. But number one 
pushed a little too hard, and knocked the ball 
away from the grasp of number two, and off 
it went down the hill once more. 

Did they give it up, then? Not a bit of it. 
Away they both went racing after it, and 
Charlie was watching to see them try it for the 
third time, when his mother called out to him, 
' ' Come and see the trapeze performer ! ' ' 

'T'HE little boy ran to the elm tree where 
she was standing, and on the lowest branch 
of which a large brown spider was swinging 
himself gracefully to and fro. 

''He hasn't even a rope," said Charlie. 

''Oh, yes," said Mamma. "Come here and 

you can see it shining between you and the sun. 

See, he is going to swing himself across to this 

side," and as she spoke the skillful little fellow 

141 



The New Hippodrome 

reached the place, and, turning, scampered 
back over the airy ladder he had made, 
which swung from side to side beneath his 
weight. Back and forth he went as if walking 
upon air, and, while they watched him, stretched 
thread after thread across, around and about, 
until the web, beautiful to look at and wonder- 
ful in construction, was shining like woven 
silver in the sun. 

"Ah, here's a performance not on the bills," 
said Bertie, and Charlie ran, laughing, to 
see two big black ants fighting over a crumb of 
bread. First one got it and ran off as fast as 
he could go, but the other soon overtook him, 
and, throwing his big black legs over his back, 
held him down while he snatched the crumb 
from him and made off in his turn. The first 
little thief picked himself up and raced after 
the other, and, while they were having another 

tussle, a third ant, bigger and blacker than the 
142 



The New Hippodrome 

others, came walking up and said, ''Now, my 
children, I'll save you all further trouble," and 
quietly walked off with the crumb ! 

Charlie ran back to tell his Mamma of what 
he had seen. But in the midst of his story he 
paused, and, pointing up the bridle-path that 
ran through the wood, exclaimed: 

''Oh, see! there's the lady on horseback, 
too!" 

His mother looked up, and bowed to the fair 
young girl, who tossed her a kiss as she passed, 
and then cantered on with the cavalier at her 
side. 

"She isn't standing on the man's head," said 
Charlie, so slowly and quietly that Bertie 
laughed aloud. 

"No," said his mother, slowly and quietly 
too, and as if she were speaking to herself, 
"but I fear she is walking over his heart." 

'^W-h-a-t, Mamma?" said both boys. But 

143 



The New Hippodrome 

Mamma was looking thoughtfiilly after the 
riders as she sat down on a mossy bank to rest. 

"f\IL, the lemonade!" cried Charlie, as if 
struck by a sudden thought; *' where 's 
our lemonade!" 

His mother took his little silver mug from 
her pocket, and held it where a tiny stream 
trickled through the moss. 

' ' There, ' ' she said, ' ' that is better, I am sure, 
than 'ice-cold lemonade' carried in wooden 
pails and drunk from tin cups, isn't it?" And 
the little boy drank the clear spring water as if 
he thought so too. 

But soon he wandered oif to a big oak tree, 
and returned with a pocketful of acorns. 
*'See," he said, "these are the peanuts!" and 
the little fellow seemed so pleased with ''his 

part of the circus," as Bertie said, that they all 

144 



The New Hippodrome 

laughed over the ''peanuts" as if it had been 
the funniest joke in the world. 

**But the music, Mamma!" cried Charlie, de- 
termined to find a counterpart for all the at- 
tractions Georgie Steele was supposed to be en- 
joying. 

His mother raised her hand with a gesture of 
silence as a dear little robin on a neighboring 
limb poured out his tiny soul in a burst of song. 

^'Is he the only music-man f" said Charlie, as 
if he thought poor robin very little in the way 
of an orchestra. 

*'No,' said Mamma, ''I hear sweet music all 
about me — ^in the wind among the pine trees, 
in the fluttering leaves of that aspen, in the 
trickling of this little stream, the buzzing of the 
bees around the columbines — the air is full of 
it if we will only listen. 'Earth, with her 
thousand voices, praises God.' " 

Charlie, perhaps, did not appreciate all this, 

145 



The New Hippodrome 

but as he slid down the hill on the pine needles, 
or gathered soft mosses to make a ''qneen's 
seat" for Mamma upon the chair-like roots of 
a fallen tree, he found that he was a very happy 
little boy, and the afternoon slipped very fast 
away. 

''/ have been to the Hiccup-home, too," he 
cried gleefully to Georgie Steele, whom they 
found at his gate, very tired and warm and 
cross, ''and we had just a splendid time!" 



Crooked Charlie 



I 




Crooked Charlie 



T'S crooked!" cried Charlie, 
''it's all crooked!" and he 
rubbed his fat little fists in his 
eyes, and gazed ruefully at a 
windmill of pretty colored paper that good 
Irish Katty had made for him in her efforts to 
amuse him this sunny morning, while his mother 
was gone to church and faithful nurse Mary 
was off for a holiday. 

Aunt Esther said some one ought to be read- 
ing to Master Charlie out of the Bible, about 
Daniel in the lion's den, or the children of 
Israel in the wilderness, instead of letting him 
run up and down the garden like a little 

heathen, but Katty said: 

149 



Crooked Charlie 



''Shure the birds are all singin', ma'am, and 
the fish in the brook dancin' in the water, and 
it's mesilf was sayin' — the Saints forgive me — 
that the Lord Himsilf couldn't shpake a word 
ag'in the childer sportin' wid the rest of the 
happy young things this fair summer morn." 

But Charlie was not happy, even if the birds 
and fishes were, for the windmill was crooked, 
and the tears in his eyes made everything seem 
dim and dull and distorted "this fair summer 
morn. ' ' 

Katty fixed it over and over again. She 

took out the pin and put it back a dozen times. 

She went in for the scissors and "shnipped it 

off a bit" here, and cut into the paper a trifle 

deeper there ; and she got a knife and made the 

stick " sthraighter ; " but it was all of no use. 

For although it began to turn when Charlie's 

little fretful breath blew on it, and whirled 

around with a dazzle and whir as he ran down 
150 



Crooked Charlie 



the gravel path in the sunshine, it was all wrong 
still. It was ''crooked," and nothing under the 
sun could set it straight in little Charlie's eyes. 

At last it became so very crooked, I am sorry 
to say, that the naughty little boy gave it a 
toss upon the lawn, where it lay on the green 
like a big hollyhock on a white stem; and the 
next minute he had thrown himself beside it 
and lay tapping the toes of his grey kid boots 
upon the gravel, as unhappy a little boy as you 
could find in the whole United States. 

"Shure, and it's yoursilf that's crooked!" 
said Katty, losing patience at last, and march- 
ing off to the kitchen where she belonged, to 
look at the clock and see how soon her new 
and unaccustomed duties would be over. 

"IT'S yoursilf that's crooked!" she said, and 

that was a very true and wise remark of 

Katty 's. Often and often it's ourselves that 

151 



Crooked Charlie 



are crooked when things will not go straight 
and we are blaming everything and everybody 
but ourselves. Even big men sometimes think 
that lamp-posts and houses are all crooked, but 
it is only when they are not straight themselves. 

And when little boys and girls find their 
windmills and kites and doll's clothes and other 
things all crooked, if they will walk right up to 
the looking-glass they will see there a little 
crooked face, and, looking behind the face, they 
will find, in the unhappy little heart, a deformed 
little spirit that has somehow crept in there, 
and makes everything seem crooked and wrong 
and miserable. 

Ah, dear little children who listen to this 
story, when things look crooked to you, will 
you do as I bid you, and drive out the dark, 
crooked spirit from the beautiful little heart 
that God has given you to make you happy, 
and into which he sends his own bright angels 
152 



Crooked Charlie 



when you keep it clean of naughty thoughts 
and ways, so they can enter! They love to be 
with you — they crowd around you — and when 
your hearts are full of such sweet visitors how 
glad and happy you are ! 

Often I see these fair spirits peeping from 
your eyes — gentleness, obedience, trust, unself- 
ishness and love — and I want to take you in 
my arms and hold you close up to me, so that 
perhaps some of them will jump out from your 
hearts into mine. 




A Christmas Vision 




A Christmas Vision 



T is the children's hour — ^between 
supper and bed-time. My big 
boy, Bertie, stands beside me, 
proud to see that his head is on a 
level with mine, and that his arm can reach 
"clear across" my shoulders as I sit in my easy 
chair. Little Charlie, two years younger than 
his big brother, climbs into my lap. 

The boys have brought their back numbers of 
St. Nicholas to me, and I am settling down for 
a long siege. 

Well, I read, and read, and read ; first a 
story of Charlie's selection, then one of Ber- 
tie's; first from one number and then from 
another; and finish with one that I have read 

157 



A Christmas Vision 

six or seven times before — the beautiful 
''Christmas Legend" in the last holiday num- 
ber. 

Bertie takes the book from my hand to look 
at the lovely picture where "Hermann brings 
home a Christmas guest," and Charlie slips 
down from my lap to join his brother, while I, 
very tired, lean back in my chair for a moment's 
quiet. My thoughts go back to the pretty stor- 
ies I have read, and, listening to my children's 
prattle, I wonder into how many different 
homes this cheery visitor finds his way; how 
many sorts and conditions of children are made 
happy by his monthly coming. 

lUST then some one touches me gently on 

the shoulder, and I look up with wondering 

surprise to see the beautiful face of the little 

Christmas guest, just as it is in the picture, 

158 



A Christmas Vision 



only far more beautiful, because not a picture 
but apparently a real child. About the golden 
hair still shines the halo — whiter than the moon- 
light, brighter than the sun. He beckons me to 
follow, and, without any effort of my own, I 
seem to float up and out into the clear star- 
light — away, away, away! 

Then I find myself in a bright and beautiful 
room. Christmas wreaths and crosses adorn 
the pictured walls; a blazing fire glows in the 
polished grate; and a group of children's faces 
gleam and sparkle in the light of the brilliant 
chandelier as they cluster about a sweet and 
gentle-looking lady, who is reading aloud — yes, 
reading from St. Nicholas! 

'^Surely this must be one of the happiest 

homes," I whisper, "to which the far-roving 

St. Nicholas ever comes! Not one shadow is 

on the happy scene, and only one thing wanting 

to complete the picture — the husband and 

159 



A Christmas Vision 

father. Where is he, I wonder?" And I turn 
to my little guide inquiringly. 

The beautiful light that surrounds him is 
shining full upon a picture on the wall, which I 
had not seen before. A wreath of holly en- 
circles it, and below, on a marble bracket 
where an ivy twines, is a vase of fragrant vio- 
lets. But in this wondrous light it does not 
seem to be a picture, but the face of a real, 
living man — strong and gentle, tender and true 
— looking down upon the little family group. 
And then I notice that the reader's face is very 
pale and sad, and her dress as black as night, 
and my eyes grow dim, for I know so well — 
ah me, so well! — just how lonely and how sad 
she is, and I long to tell her how the picture 
looks when seen in the beautiful light in which 
it shines for me. But she is smiling now as 
she reads with cheerful voice a merry story 

from St. Nicholas, which is greeted with a burst 
160 



A Christinas Vision 



of happy laughter. Rising with it, we float out 
again into the starry night. 

^nPlS but a moment, and we are in another 
room. No blazing grate is here, no group 
of happy children. A feeble light glimmers 
from a lamp upon the table, and a feebler fire 
shines faintly through the cracks of a broken 
stove, where a tired, ragged boy tries vainly to 
warm his half -naked feet. 

*'0h. Sis," he says, looking over to the mis- 
erable bed, where a white little face I had not 
noticed, turns restlessly on the pillow, "I 
brought you somethin' home tonight you'll like, 
I bet — a book full of picters! A little chap 
sittin' on a big stoop had one, and he said he'd 
read it so often he guessed he'd give it to us, 
so he cut the threads with his knife and divided 

it up between me and two other fellers; here 

161 



A Christmas Vision 

it is" — and he dives his cold hand into a basket 
where I catch a glimpse of matches, shoe- 
strings, and all the modest stock in trade where- 
by this brave little street peddler earns food 
and shelter, such as it is, for his suffering sister, 
who is all he has in the wide world. 

' ' See, here 's a angel on the first page. I seen 
that the first thing, and I says to myself, ' Sis '11 
like to see that, sure!' " — and he shows her 
the pretty picture. 

It was only a few leaves out of the last 
Christmas number of ^S'^. Nicholas, yet it was 
enough to bring peace and even gladness into 
this wretched home, for the little girl's face 
brightens as she says, ' ' Oh, yes, it is an angel ! 
Can you read about it, Tom!" 

''Of course I can," says Tom, and, carrying 
back the lamp to the shaky table, he sets it 
down and spreads the book out on his ragged 

knee. The first verse he has some trouble in 

162 



A Christinas Vision 

spelling out, but the others come more easily, 
and the child listens with unaccustomed delight 
to the sweet refrain of ''Christmas Day in the 
Morning. ' ' 

''Read it again, Tom," she whispers, and, 
seeing her lying there with closed eyes and 
peaceful smile, Tom reads on, glad to think that 
poor Sis is going to sleep so soon tonight. 

I AM thinking sadly of Tom and his sister, 
when suddenly I find myself again in a 
cheerful, brightly-lighted room, where the 
rich curtains, tasteful furniture, marble stat- 
uettes and bronzes, speak of wealth and 
luxury. 

"Ah, this is a relief!" I cry. "Now we 
shall see more happy children. Ah, me! why 
cannot all earth's little ones be born to wealth 

and happiness and joy?" But as I speak I see 

163 



A Christmas Vision 



a weary little face bending listlessly above a 
book, or glancing anxiously at another face 
wMch is also bent over a book in an attitude 
of absorbing interest. 

"Please, Miss Stanley," says the little fel- 
low, *' won't yon read to me now? I have been 
good so long, and I am so tired. ' ' 

''Presently, presently," is the absent answer, 
and then impatiently, as a weary little sigh 
smites her conscience, ''Don't ask me again, 
or I shall not do it at all!" 

She goes back to her book, and the poor baby 
turns patiently to his. 

Oh, those black and funny little boys with 

their brooms and brushes, in the pictures he has 

been looking at all day ! And that smallest one 

of all, no bigger than he is, away up on that 

high chimney! Chimney-sweeps they are, 

nurse says — for while she washed his hands 
164 



A Christmas Vision 

after dinner he had coaxed her to wait a minute 
till he should run for his St. Nicholas, to find 
out. How nice it must be to run about and 
climb high places like that, and not be afraid. 
Ah, how he wished that he were a chimney- 
sweep. He wondered if those were little black 
velvet suits, like his, that they had on. Oh, no, 
that couldn't be, or they would never be allowed 
to play with brooms or brushes, or to climb 
chimneys. But what did they do, and how? 
All the wonderful reading around the pictures 
tells it all, and yet he cannot know ; and again 
his pleading eyes are raised to the unrespon- 
sive face of the governess, till the mother- 
heart within me aches in pity for the child. 

The door opens and a white-capped maid 
enters. 

''Come, Master Harry," she says, "it is time 
to go to bed." 

165 



A Christmas Vision 



"But Miss Stanley is going to read one story 
for me first, ' ' and the poor little voice trembles 
with eagerness. 

' ' Not if it is bed- time, Harry ; of course not, ' ' 
is the pitiless answer. 

"Come along," says Nanette; "it is my 
evening out, and I have no time to lose. ' ' 

"Marie will put me to bed," anxiously sug- 
gests the little fellow, "when I have heard my 
story. I know she will." 

"Marie is busy dressing your Mamma's hair 
for the ball — and has her hands full, too, to 
please her," she adds to herself as she leads 
poor Harry away, chiding him rudely for not 
bidding Miss Stanley a more cheerful good 
night. 

As the room vanishes, the fresh, bright- 
covered number of St. Nicholas lies in the 
little chair where Harry left it, and I sigh 



166 



A Christmas Vision 

to think that the children of the rich are not 
always the happiest or most tenderly cared for. 

A ND now we take our way southward. In 
a trice we meet its balmy airs, and, sweep- 
ing low in our flight, pass over groves of 
orange-trees, where the golden fruit gleams 
among the wax-like leaves, and the night is fra- 
grant with the breath of the beautiful white 
blossoms. In a little cabin an old negress holds 
a fair-haired child upon her knee, hushing it to 
sleep with her favorite camp-meeting songs. 

"Dar now, honey, shet yo' eyes. Yo' ma's 
too sick fer yo' ter see her ternight, an' ole 
Mammy '11 tek good keer er her baby, sho'. 
Whar's yer new St. Nicholas book, honey, an' 
we'll look at de pritty pictersi Ain' hit come 
yit? Hyar de ole book, den, wid de pritty li'l 

'Peepsy-Weepsy' picters. Dese ain' no low- 

167 



A Christmas Vision 

down Yankee chickens now, I tell yer, chile. 
Dey come er fine ole stock, dat's sartin; dey's 
got hit in dey look. Dey's sho' nuff South 'n 
'ristocratic chickens, dey is; an' you'se Mam- 
my's own Peep sy- Weep sy li'l gal." 

The fair little arms draw closer the dark and 
kindly face, and, nestling in the faithful bosom, 
little "Peepsy-Weepsy" closes her blue eyes 
and is soon fast asleep. 

KTOETHWARD we speed again on the balmy 

southern breeze. ''Happy St. Nicholas," I 

say, as we float along, "carrying comfort and 

happiness and mirth into so many homes — 

north and south, and east and west; and high 

and low, and rich and poor!" 

Then suddenly I find myself in my easy chair 

at my own fireside again! My little boys are 

still looking at the pictures in their St. Nicholas, 
168 



A Christmas Vision 



but my beautiful guide has vanished. And, 
thinking of what I have seen and heard in the 
short time I have been away — for it was scarce 
ten minutes by the clock — it all seems like a 
strange and beautiful dream. 



